darkparablesfan

[darkparablesfan]

Hello again! I am here again with some headcanons. This for a fan event that me and a friend of mine @shuji123 made up!

The event basically is based on Cinderella.

People wears magical glass slippers that leads them to the dance floor where they would dance with their fated true love. However they also been enchanted by a face blind spell that will only disappear once the dance is over.

Here is the boys reactions when they see you as their fated true love.

🌹 Riddle Rosehearts

As the enchantment shatters like spun glass, Riddle turns with a calm breath—expecting decorum.

Then he sees you.

His expression freezes. For a split second, he doesn’t speak—he just stares, eyes wide and full of quiet disbelief. “You…?” The word is barely above a whisper.

Then the guilt sets in. How many times has he scolded you for things you did with good intentions? How many times did you show him kindness anyway? He takes a step forward, voice trembling. “I… I never imagined it could be you. But… I’m glad it is.”

---

♣️ Trey Clover

The moment the spell fades, Trey blinks slowly, turning toward the person who had just been laughing softly with him about his “two left feet.”

“Y/N?”

His smile comes easily—gentle, warm, a little shy around the edges. “Guess the stars were right—you are my perfect match.” He chuckles quietly, then takes off his glasses to clean them—nerves creeping up behind his calm demeanor. “Well, if you’ll have me… I’d be honored to keep dancing with you, glass slippers or not.”

---

♦️ Cater Diamond

He opens his eyes, expecting something MagiCam-worthy. But when he sees you, he just stops.

Like the music vanished.

His painted-on grin falters for a heartbeat, replaced with something real. His brows rise—he’s stunned. Then he lets out a small, breathless laugh. “Woah. You’re seriously my match?” And then softer, “I mean… wow. It feels right.”

Then he’s back to beaming. “Gonna need a selfie with you ASAP, babe~ This moment? Totally priceless.”

---

♥️ Ace Trappola

When the magic lifts, Ace looks around like “okay, let’s get this over with.”

And then—he sees You.

His entire face short-circuits.

“Wha—HUH?! You’re kidding, right?” He laughs, flustered, then rubs the back of his neck with a huff. “I mean—not that I’m complaining or anything, but seriously? You?”

Then, with a rare, genuine softness: “…Guess that explains why dancing with you didn’t suck.” He grins, cheeks red. “Don’t get used to the flattery, ‘kay?”

---

♠️ Deuce Spade

The spell breaks—and Deuce turns to look at his partner, expecting someone graceful, someone elegant...

Instead, he sees you. His eyes go huge. “Y-Y/N?!”

He stumbles over his own feet. “I—I didn’t… You’re my…? Oh man.” His hands hover awkwardly like he’s not sure whether to bow or apologize. Then, slowly, a sincere smile spreads across his face.

“I’m really happy. I can’t believe it’s you… but I’m so glad it is.” He gently offers his hand again—his ears pink. “If it’s okay… can we dance one more time? Just us.”

---

🦁 Leona Kingscholar

The spell lifts, and Leona exhales, impatient. He turns lazily—bored and ready to brush the whole thing off.

But then… he sees you.

His eyes narrow. Then open.

“…Tch.”

You. Of all people.

He looks away for a long moment, jaw clenched. “You?” he mutters under his breath. Not angry—afraid. Because someone like you is dangerous. You are the type that could slip under his guard and stay.

“…You’re really unlucky, you know,” he finally says, voice low. “Getting stuck with a guy like me.”

But he doesn’t walk away.

He stays.

Because deep down, maybe this cursed glass slipper finally fits.

---

🐶 Ruggie Bucchi

The magic fades—and Ruggie blinks fast. His face scrunches up as he sees who it is.

“Wait… huh?! Y/N?!”

He actually chokes on his own spit, then laughs out loud in disbelief.

“Nooo way. Seriously?! You got scammed by fate, huh?” But the laughter doesn’t reach his eyes. Because behind the joke is a flash of awe, a quiet flutter of something he doesn’t think he deserves.

“You… you sure this ain’t some fluke?” he asks quietly, voice softer than usual. And when you smile at him?

He grins, a little crooked.

“…Guess I better stop skipping out on breakfast. Got someone to impress now.”

---

🐺 Jack Howl

Jack feels the magic vanish—and his instincts kick in before his thoughts do. He turns and locks eyes with you.

“…!”

His mouth parts, stunned. “Y/N…?”

He’s completely still. Like someone punched him straight in the chest. His ears twitch, and he looks away almost immediately, the tips of them bright red.

“I—I don’t get it,” he says. “You… you’re always so kind. And strong. Why would someone like you be fated for someone like me?”

Then, more quietly:

“…But I’m not gonna reject it. I’ll work hard to be worthy of it. Of you.”

He gently, almost shyly, holds out his hand again.

---

🐙 Azul Ashengrotto

The enchantment fades. Azul brushes a hand through his hair, ready to paste on his usual pleasant smile—

—and freezes.

His glasses nearly slip off.

“Y/N?” he breathes, startled. His brain short-circuits—surely not. Surely fate wouldn't be so cruel.

Because you’re the one person who helped him, smiled at him, saw through him without demanding a single thing.

His heart sinks.

“This must be a mistake,” he says stiffly, guarding his voice behind a businesslike tone. “You deserve someone… far more noble. Someone better.”

But when you step toward him—soft eyes, genuine smile—his walls crack just a little.

“…I’ll protect this bond,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Even if it’s fragile. Even if it’s foolish.”

---

🍄‍🟫 Jade Leech

The magic lifts. Jade’s ever-present grin flickers into something still. Almost… unreadable.

“Well,” he says smoothly, tilting his head as he stares directly at you. “How utterly unexpected.”

And yet—his heart skips.

You are the one?

The gentle, intuitive person who treated even him with warmth? The one who brought him wildflowers once, just because?

He steps closer with deliberate calm, but there’s a rare glint in his eye—something almost reverent.

“…You do realize what this means, don’t you?” he murmurs. “You’ve wandered into very deep waters, dear Y/N.”

His smile returns—still sharp, but now laced with something tender.

“I hope you’ll let me keep you safe in them.”

---

🦈 Floyd Leech

The second the spell breaks, Floyd whips around in excitement.

“Oi~! Who’s my shrimpy fate—”

Then sees you.

Stares.

Eyes wide. Expression unreadable. For a long second, he’s just… silent.

“…Eh?”

Then it hits.

Like lightning.

A gigantic grin spreads across his face.

“EH?? SHRIMPY?? YOU’RE MINE?? AHAHAHA!! THIS IS SO FUNNY!!”

He grabs you, spins you around. “Now you can’t escape, y’know? Not from fate~!”

But even through the playful tone, there’s a weird softness in his eyes when he looks at you.

“…You really danced with me, huh?” he says, quieter now. “Guess you’re stuck with me forever, Y/N~ …That okay?”

---

☀️ Kalim Al-Asim

The moment the magic lifts, Kalim gasps—

“Y/N?!”

He beams, eyes shining like a child on Christmas morning. It’s not confusion—it’s pure, overflowing joy.

He clasps your hands instantly.

“I can’t believe it was you! That’s amazing! I knew you felt so warm—but you?!”

And then? He laughs. Bright and loud and full of delight.

He whirls you into another impromptu spin. The music may be over, but Kalim is still dancing.

“I’m the luckiest guy in the world! You’re my destined one?! I’m gonna tell Jamil! We’re gonna throw a whole party just for this!”

But when things quiet down, he leans in close and says more gently—

“…I really hope I can make you as happy as you make me everyday.”

---

🐍 Jamil Viper

The spell breaks.

Jamil stares. His entire posture stiffens.

He looks at you like someone just told him the moon is in love with the sea.

“You—”

He stops himself.

His heart is racing.

Not because you’re unsuitable. But because you are everything he never dared imagine he could have.

Someone too kind. Too selfless. Too good.

And you are his?

He steps back slightly, gaze guarded, walls going up by instinct.

“…This doesn’t make sense,” he says. “Fate must be mistaken.”

But then he sees your eyes—that look—and his breath hitches.

You're not afraid. You are not second-guessing. You’re just there. Standing there with open arms.

And something inside Jamil breaks—in the best way. His arms wrapped around you.

“…Don’t disappear,” he says quietly. “If this is real… then stay.”

---

💄 Vil Schoenheit

The moment the spell fades and your face becomes clear, Vil’s breath halts.

His eyes widen just a little—barely perceptible to others, but a storm of surprise in his heart.

“…You.”

He says it softly. Like a revelation.

Not in disdain.

Not in disappointment.

But with a kind of reverence he didn’t know he was capable of.

“You’re… my fated one?”

Vil steps closer. He studies you—truly sees you.

Not just your softness or your sweetness—but your strength too. The quiet kind. The kind that shines brightest under pressure.

He exhales, then offers you a hand once more.

“Then I am lucky. Because to be paired with someone like you—someone so sincere… I must be doing something right.”

And though he hides it well, there’s a faint pink dusting his cheeks.

---

🏹 Rook Hunt

“Mon dieu…”

The moment he sees you, Rook presses a hand to his heart like he’s been shot.

His entire face lights up—thrilled, amazed, deeply enchanted.

“Quelle beauté, quelle grâce—! My dear, to think it was you! My heart knew your soul long before my eyes saw your face!”

He circles around you with practiced grace, admiring every gesture, every shift of expression. Not to make you uncomfortable—but like a painter taking in their muse.

“It must be fate. There’s no other explanation for the perfection of this pairing!”

He kisses your hand dramatically.

“I shall devote myself to uncovering every layer of your mystery, ma colombe. This is but the beginning of our story~”

---

🍎 Epel Felmier

“...Wait. Y/N?”

He freezes.

Stares.

His ears go red instantly.

“Wha—You—you’re the person I was dancing with?!”

It short-circuits his brain.

Sure, it felt nice during the dance. Gentle. Comforting. But You?!

He splutters. He’s embarrassed. He doesn't know where to look. His image!! What would Vil say?!

“…W-Well, it’s not like I’m upset or nothin’! I mean, you’re great! I just—uh—wow, seriously? You?”

Then, sheepishly, he mutters under his breath:

“…I guess I’m kinda glad it was you.”

But he won’t say it again.

Unless you asks. (Then maybe.)

---

💻 Idia Shroud

"..."

The silence lasts too long.

The second your face comes into focus, Idia freezes like a computer crashing mid-update.

No words. Just big, horrified eyes and visible internal screaming.

“Y/N?! A-Are you sure the spell's not glitching? Maybe it didn’t update—Did anyone patch-check this thing—?!”

His hair flares pink and blue in chaotic, panicked pulses.

Because out of everyone, it had to be you.

The person who brings food to his dorm, talks gently to Ortho, and—worse of all—smiles at him like he’s someone worth smiling at.

He flails for an escape route, mumbles excuses, nearly trips over the hem of his coat—

But before he can run off, he glances back.

You’re still there. Looking at him. Softly. Not laughing. Not mocking. Just… warm.

And he short-circuits again.

“...N-No way someone like you got stuck with someone like me…”

Yet maybe—just maybe—a part of him is happy.

(Ortho will never let him live it down.)

Ortho beams like a kid on their birthday.

Then, more seriously, he floats up a little closer.

“...Please be patient with Nii-san. He gets scared easily. But I think you might be the one person brave enough to reach him.”

---

🐉 Malleus Draconia

The spell breaks—and he blinks.

You.

You were the one he’d danced with. The one who laughed so gently at his awkward steps. Who offered their hand without hesitation. Who didn’t shy away from the magic in the air—or in him.

A long silence. His expression unreadable at first.

Then, a slow, blooming smile—one that feels like dusk melting into moonlight.

“So… it was you.”

His voice is deep, low, fond.

He gently holds your hand—carefully, reverently. Not as a prince, but as someone who’s been alone for a very long time, and now finds himself seen.

“I have never dare to dream of having someone that the stars sent for me,” he murmurs, “and yet here you are. A light that chose to walk with a shadow.”

He bows over your hand—no grandeur, no theatrics. Just genuine warmth.

“If you will allow it… I would like to remain at your side for all the dances yet to come.”

---

🦇 Lilia Vanrouge

“Oh ho~?”

The moment the spell lifts and he sees you, Lilia’s eyes sparkle with mischief—and something softer underneath.

“Well, well, well. I must have done something good if the stars paired me with you~.”

He takes your hand with a little flourish, still playful—but there’s a rare sincerity in the way his gloved fingers curl around yours.

“You were quite the enchanting partner. Even with the mystery magic... I felt it was you.”

His tone dips briefly, more honest.

“You remind me of the world I used to dream of. Soft, but strong. Kind, but never naive. Someone who could weather even the harshest of times with their heart still intact.”

He winks. “Looks like I just found a reason to stay here a while longer.”

---

⚡ Sebek Zigvolt

“…!!!”

Sebek freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“Y-You—!? Y/N?!”

His face turns bright red.

He is absolutely malfunctioning.

“I- I mean— IT IS AN HONOR! A-AN UNEXPECTED ONE! TO BE DESTINED —TO YOU!”

He straightens up immediately, hand over his heart like he’s pledging to protect you in battle for the rest of his life.

(Which, let’s be honest, he might.)

“You danced… excellently! Yes! You upheld the decorum of the event beautifully! The grace, the dignity—! I was impressed! No—moved!”

He pauses. Lowers his voice, just barely.

“…You’re very gentle. Even to someone like me. That’s… I’ll treasure that.”

He bows stiffly, then softly says:

“I’ll guard you as if you were royalty.”

---

🌘 Silver

He blinks slowly.

“…It was you?”

He sounds… a little dazed. He hadn’t expected it. But as he looks at you, something quiet and peaceful settles behind his eyes.

“…That makes sense.”

There’s a slight flush on his cheeks, but his voice is calm—serene, like morning mist.

“You’ve always made me feel at peace. Even when I’m tired, I can hear your voice and feel safe.”

He gently takes your hand and holds it like it’s something fragile. Precious.

“I would like to keep walking beside you… if you’ll let me.”

And for a moment, just one moment, you swear the usually drowsy Silver smiles—a soft, open smile, like sunlight through clouds.

Hope you guys liked them! 🥰

[darkparablesfan]

@darkparablesfan won “Guess the voice actor” game! First place among 60 participants!

Here’s the art that was commissioned as reward✨✨

Super challenging but also superfun to make. Congrats on your win and thank you for your participation 🥳

[darkparablesfan]

Hello hello !

I wish to share my headcanons with you all for Twisted Wonderland guys.

This is when the boys meet their first child with you!

Everyone in obviously aged up for this

Riddle Rosehearts

The moment Riddle steps into the room, he’s stiff with nerves—he’s memorized books on prenatal care, birth plans, and child development, but nothing prepares him for the sight of you holding a tiny, swaddled baby in your arms. His stern façade melts into teary awe.

"Is that... truly our child?" he asks, voice cracking. When he finally holds the baby, he's too scared to breathe at first. You gently adjust his hands and tell him he’s doing just fine. Riddle immediately makes a vow (to the baby and himself) to be better than the strict upbringing he had. The baby grabs his finger—and Riddle nearly cries again.

---

Ace Trappola

Ace peeks his head in with a sheepish grin, already holding a stuffed animal like it’s a peace offering.

"Hey, how’s the strongest person I know? Oh—and you too, Y/N."

He’s cocky at first, trying to keep the mood light, but the moment he sees his baby sleeping soundly in your arms, his mouth goes dry. When you offer to let him hold the baby, he nervously jokes, "Hope I don’t drop the little rascal." But the second he’s cradling them, everything gets real—and quiet. His smile softens, and he just stares down at the baby for a long time. "Hey… I’m your dad. Cool, huh?"

---

Deuce Spade

Deuce is practically trembling as he enters. His eyes are red from crying earlier when he got the news. He bows to you out of habit before realizing, “Wait, I’m supposed to be your partner, not a knight!” He rushes to your side, apologizing for not being there every second of labor.

When you offer the baby to him, he holds them like they’re the most fragile, sacred thing in the world. “You’re so small…” he murmurs, eyes wide. Then, to the baby: “I’m going to be a good dad. I swear.” He cries again. A lot.

---

Cater Diamond

Cater walks in with balloons, flowers, and a phone ready to take 100 selfies—but the moment he sees you cradling your baby, the scene stops him cold.

"Oh. Wow. You’re actually real," he says to the baby in awe. He gets unusually quiet, gently setting his things down and asking to hold them.

His smile turns incredibly tender when he holds the baby close to his chest.

"Hey there, little cutie~ You’re gonna grow up with the most stylish, fun, and totally embarrassing dad ever." He definitely tears up, despite trying not to ruin his eyeliner. You make sure to catch their first family selfie.

---

Trey Clover

Trey comes in calmly, carrying warm bread and snacks for you, ever the caretaker. His smile is warm, proud—but when he sees your baby in your arms, it falters into overwhelmed silence.

"Hey… hey there, sweetheart," he whispers as he sits beside you two. You gently hand the baby over, and Trey cradles them like he’s been doing it forever.

"They got your eyes," he notes with a fond smile. "Guess that means you’re gonna be beautiful and stubborn, huh?"

He kisses your forehead and holds you two close. It’s quiet, gentle, filled with deep affection.

---

Leona Kingscholar

Leona claims he’s too cool to get worked up, and he strolls in like he doesn’t care. But you know better—his tail is twitching, his ears are perked up, and he keeps fidgeting like he’s ready to bolt. When he sees the baby asleep on your chest, everything stops.

He approaches slowly, kneeling beside the bed.

"So that’s the little runt, huh..."

You offer to let him hold the baby, and he mutters, “Tch. If they cry, that’s on you.” But when the baby snuggles into his chest and yawns, Leona freezes. His arms tighten just slightly. He mumbles under his breath, barely audible:

"You’re not allowed to grow up, got it?"

He stays there for hours, pretending to nap beside them.

---

Jack Howl

Jack practically sprints to the room when he hears the baby has arrived. He skids to a halt outside the door, takes a deep breath to calm himself down, then steps inside stiff and proper.

"I’m here—Sorry! I didn’t mean to be late!"

He bows to you out of instinct, then pauses when he sees the baby. His ears perk and his eyes widen.

"Whoa..."

He nervously accepts the baby into his arms, and his tail starts wagging uncontrollably as he looks down at them.

"You’re... really here," he says in awe. "I promise, I’ll be a strong father. I’ll teach you to run fast, and climb mountains, and—"

You gently tell him he’s scaring the baby with all the plans. Jack turns red and apologizes—but he’s beaming.

---

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie comes in with three different bags of snacks for you and a big grin.

"Boss! You did it, huh? I mean—you always do great, obviously!"

But then he sees the baby and goes quiet. His grin wavers. You gently lift the baby up to show him, and something in his face shifts—like he’s seeing something so rare and precious, he can’t quite process it.

"That’s... ours?" he says quietly.

Ruggie hesitantly holds the baby, his fingers trembling slightly. He talks to them in his usual playful tone:

"Hey there, squirt. You better not cry too loud—I already got enough work to do around."

But when the baby grabs his shirt, Ruggie gets misty-eyed. Quietly, he whispers:

"You’re gonna have everything I didn’t. Promise."

---

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul arrives impeccably dressed, but clearly anxious—his hands are clasped tightly, and he’s running through mental scripts.

"This is a monumental moment. I must appear composed. Dignified. Prepared."

Then he sees you with the baby and promptly forgets all of it.

"O-oh. Oh, stars above—Y/N... they’re... breathtaking."

When you hand him the baby, he panics:

"Wait! What if I drop them? What if I—"

But the baby looks up at him and yawns—and Azul crumbles.

He cradles them with exaggerated care, his voice cracking:

"Hello, little pearl... I’ll give you a good future, no matter what it takes."

You tease him about crying, and Azul insists it’s just “eye strain.”

---

Jade Leech

Jade walks in with flowers and quiet congratulations, smiling in that enigmatic way. But when he sees you and the baby, his expression softens—genuinely.

He leans over the baby with a gentle hum:

"So this is the newest member of our strange little family. How curious..."

He takes the baby with a practiced hand, completely calm.

"Your grip is strong already. A good sign."

He sits beside you, the baby tucked in one arm, and quietly adds:

"You’ve given me something even more fascinating than any rare mushroom, my dear."

Then, in a low tone only you hear:

"I never imagined I’d be this happy. And yet here we are."

---

Floyd Leech

Floyd bursts into the room like a hurricane.

"Shrimpy! Where’s the lil’ squirt!? I wanna seeeee!"

He bounds to your side, leans in close, and gasps dramatically:

"WHOA! It’s got your sleepy face already!"

You hesitantly offer the baby, warning him to be gentle. Floyd scoops them up like it’s second nature and starts spinning gently (you stop him before he goes full tilt).

"You’re so smol and squishy! Like a jellyfish nugget!"

The baby coos and grabs his finger. Floyd blinks. And then... something clicks.

He gets quiet. He sits down.

"Hey. I’m your daddy, yeah? That’s funny, huh... I think I like this."

He gently tucks them in against his chest.

"Guess I gotta stick around now, huh?"

---

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim practically explodes into the room with excitement, beaming so hard it’s a miracle the sun doesn’t dim from jealousy.

"Y/N!! Y/N, is the baby here!? I brought gifts! And balloons! And—oh stars, look at them!!"

He rushes to your bedside, immediately cooing over the baby.

"They’re so tiny! And warm! Aww, look, they have your eyes!"

When he finally holds the baby, he gets very quiet. A rare, serene moment as he gazes down at their child.

"I’m a dad… I’m really a dad."

Then he laughs through tears.

"I’m going to throw them the best birthday parties in the world! Every year!"

He proceeds to sing a cheerful lullaby in his native tongue, and you can only smile at how full of love and light he is.

---

Jamil Viper

Jamil enters quietly, composed as ever—but his eyes are sharp, scanning you to make sure you are safe and well.

When he sees the baby, his breath catches for half a second.

"They’re alright? You’re alright?" he asks softly, brushing your hair back.

You offer the baby to him gently, and he hesitates.

"I’ve never held a baby before... I don’t want to mess up."

But when the baby is placed in his arms, instinct takes over. He cradles them perfectly, his expression guarded but undeniably awed.

The baby blinks up at him—and he smiles.

"You’re going to be sharp. I can already tell. I’ll protect you... I promise."

Later, you catch him humming lullabies in the corner, holding the baby with practiced ease. He doesn’t notice he’s smiling.

---

Vil Schoenheit

Vil enters with poise and grace, bouquet in hand, robes spotless. But the moment his eyes land on you and the child in your arms, something in him softens completely.

"You did beautifully, meine Rose," he says gently, brushing a kiss to your forehead.

When he holds the baby for the first time, he freezes for a second, utterly stunned by how delicate and warm the child is.

"They're... perfect. A miracle. Just like you."

Tears prick his eyes — and he hastily wipes them away.

“I refuse to be photographed crying like this."

---

Rook Hunt

Rook arrives dramatically — roses in hand, poetic praises ready.

"Ah! Ma trésor et notre petit miracle! Y/N, your light has brought new life into the world!"

He immediately swoons over both you and child, speaking in reverent whispers as if they were sacred beings.

When he holds the baby, he goes completely still, overcome by awe.

"So small, yet already carrying the breath of destiny... what tales shall you write into this world, mon enfant?"

He kisses the baby’s forehead like he’s knighting them.

Expect him to start writing poetic journal entries about every coo and sneeze for the next year.

---

Epel Felmier

Epel shows up trying to look tough and chill.

"So, uh... it’s out? The baby, I mean."

But the moment he sees the tiny bundle in your arms, his entire demeanor melts.

"Aw heck, they’re smaller than a bushel apple..."

He takes the baby carefully, visibly trembling with nerves.

"Don’t cry, don’t cry—oh wait, they ain’t cryin’. Hah. Tough little thing, huh?"

He grins, the most relaxed he’s ever been.

"I’m gonna teach you to climb trees and throw a mean snowball. And how to make Granny’s cider just right."

It takes all of your willpower not to coo at him.

---

Idia Shroud

Idia had been pacing in the waiting room with Ortho giving him calming pep talks, an emergency plushie in hand, and his hair glowing like a flickering glitch.

When he's finally allowed into the room and sees you holding their child, he freezes.

Not just socially paralyzed—like system crash levels of freeze.

"W-Wait. That’s... that’s our baby. Like. A real baby. A tiny NPC that came from us. I—"

His voice cracks.

You gently encourage him to hold them.

He panics.

"W-What if I drop them?? What if they cry because I’m weird?? What if my hair is too bright and they level up into a dragon or something??"

But he eventually sits, awkwardly stiff, and you carefully place the baby in his arms.

The baby yawns. And grabs his finger.

And Idia. Short-circuits.

"Oh. Oh my gods. They're... they're not glitching out."

Then he whispers:

"You’re the rarest gacha pull of my entire life."

He doesn’t let go for hours.

Even Ortho cries (digitally).

---

Malleus Draconia

The entire kingdom is silent the day the heir is born. Thunder rolls in the distance, not from rage, but from emotion Malleus hasn’t let show in centuries.

When he walks into the chamber, his usual poise falters. You are tired but glowing, smiles softly and beckons him closer.

Malleus kneels beside you and whispers, “You’ve done something I could never dream of, my precious treasure.”

He holds their child with reverence—like a relic, like a wish made flesh. The baby grabs one of his fingers.

“Ah. So you already seek power,” he teases gently. “You are certainly my child.”

He leans down to kiss your temple and the baby’s forehead.

“I vow to guard this one with my life... and perhaps even smile more than twice a day.”

Lightning strikes outside. Coincidence? Probably not.

---

Silver

Silver had dozed off in the chair by the window—he had stayed by your side the whole time, hand in yours even as he dozed on and off in worry.

When he’s finally awakened and told he can meet his child, he rises instantly despite the sleep clinging to him.

The moment he sees the baby curled against you, everything in him stills.

Like a knight kneeling before a miracle.

His voice is quiet. “I didn’t think I could feel more awake than I do now.”

He takes the baby carefully, holding them close with tears in his eyes. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be loved. And you’ll have the most amazing family in the world.”

---

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek had been yelling at the castle staff for hours to keep everything spotless, to make sure you had everything approved by any royal physician ever, and also threatening anyone who so much as breathed wrong near the door.

When he is finally allowed in, he stands at full posture, hands behind his back like he's reporting for duty.

But the second he sees you and the tiny bundle in your arms...

he short-circuits.

He clutches his chest like he’s been hit. “Is… that… my—our—child?! So small?! So fragile!? My love, are you truly alright?! Should the room be warmer? Does the child need calcium?!”

You calmly coos, “Sebek, dear. Come meet them.”

When he holds the baby, he quiets. He’s… almost trembling.

A single tear escapes. He covers it with a cough.

“I will train them into the finest protector. But for now… I’ll just guard them while they nap.”

Cue you softly patting his head as he fiercely stares down anyone who tries to enter the room.

—

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia walks in, quietly at first. His usual playfulness is gone, replaced by something deeper, gentler. His steps are slow. Almost hesitant.

“Y/N…” he says softly. “May I…?”

You smile, glowing despite your exhaustion, and nod.

“Come meet your child.”

Lilia approaches the bed with uncharacteristic silence.

You carefully place the baby in his arms.

And for a moment… time stops.

Lilia stares down at this tiny, warm life swaddled in his arms. The baby makes a soft noise—half a sigh, half a yawn.

His arms don’t tremble, but his lips do.

“So small…” he whispers. “And yet… you feel like my entire world.”

His voice cracks, just a little, and he leans down, brushing a kiss to the baby’s forehead with infinite care.

“You are loved. From the moment you existed—you were already loved more than I ever thought I could love again.”

He sits down beside you on the bed, holding your child between the two of you. He turns his head, resting it gently against yours.

“I’ve lived many lifetimes… but this is the first time I’ve truly felt like I’ve been born again.”

You tear up—of course you do—and Lilia just chuckles quietly, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

“You’ve given me a future, my love. Not just another lifetime.”

He hums something faintly—a lullaby no one else in this world remembers. And for the first time in centuries, Lilia Vanrouge is silent not because he has nothing to say…but because this moment is louder than words.

[darkparablesfan]

After the tide turns – Part 4

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: apocalypse, blood, military control, mentions of drugs, murder, swearing, inspired by the last of us, no proof read for this one, established relationship, english is not my first language!

a/n: 💩 is getting real!!  I really wanted post this sooner, but when I’m telling you I wanted to cry and bang my head into my laptop while working on this I really mean it. What is english language is even about.. anyway, please let me know what you think ♥

word count: 5.3k

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan, @yulianie

masterlist | previous | next |

The gates slam shut behind the new arrivals like a final verdict. Steel jaws snapping closed around the QZ, sealing the fate of everyone inside. The sound echoes off the concrete, a harsh punctuation that reverberates through your chest. No frantic warnings. Just the grinding machinery of control clicking deliberately into place.

Ward Cameron steps forward like a man born to command moments like this. His stride is calm, measured, hands clasped behind his back as if inspecting property already his. His gaze sweeps the camp with the quiet assurance of a monarch surveying a conquered province.

Behind him, his men fan out like clockwork, moving with choreographed precision. One climbs the watchtower, boots striking metal silently, a ghost moving through the early morning haze. His movements carry the ease of someone holding the codes even the guards don’t have. Another slips through the barracks door, rifle lowered but ready, fluid and practiced. The guards don’t resist; they part without hesitation.

Rafe brings up the rear, the familiar smirk barely masking the sharper edge beneath. His revolver gleams under the rising sun—not merely a weapon, but a symbol. Before the Cameron convoy rolls in, Rafe deals in black market shipments: ammunition, scarce medical supplies, contraband luxuries capable of shifting loyalties in the quiet desperation of the camp. Rumors whisper of this shadow economy like a secret currency, and Rafe is its undisputed merchant prince.

This takeover isn’t just military. It’s business.

Every smooth move, every silent nod, every guard stepping aside without question is part of a plan cut in dark rooms and sealed with whispered promises over greasy tables. Rafe is the muscle and the merchant, securing his foothold in the new order.

Ward’s voice crackles over the loudspeakers. The words promise order backed by federal decree, but they sound less like salvation and more like a contract being enforced.

“You will not be harmed, so long as you comply,” he intones, voice smooth and measured, wrapping the camp like chains. “Lay down all unregistered arms. Civilian patrols are suspended. Essential workers, report to requisition points. Everyone else—remain in your shelters.”

You know compliance means survival only for those willing to obey without question.

Rafe’s black-market connections ensure Ward’s men are stocked and untouchable, while the camp slips quietly beneath their control.

You don’t realize you’ve frozen until JJ’s rough grip snaps around your wrist— grounding you.

“Back to the tent,” he murmurs, voice low, tight, like something’s coiling deep inside his chest.

But your feet refuse to move.

Rafe swaggers through last, the lazy grin barely masking the hard edge of a man who hasn’t spent the night behind the guards’ barracks. Like a visitor sliding in under the guise of diplomacy the day before, now he moves like he owns the place.

His sidearm shimmers, a quiet declaration holstered in plain sight. He chews a toothpick, eyes scanning the camp with bored indifference, as if nothing here matters.

He isn’t hunting anyone specific.

He’s just watching. Waiting.

JJ tugs again. “We have to move.”

Around you, the camp shifts.  Something subtler—whispers rippling between tents, civilians pulling back like water retreating before a storm surge. A child vanishes into the folds of a mother’s jacket.

Kiara appears at your side, blade reversed and sliding fluidly along her arm as if it’s a natural extension of her body. Pope slides up quietly beside her near the depot wall, breath ragged, eyes wide and sharp with disbelief.

“What the hell is this?” he demands, voice low but strained.

Kiara doesn’t spare him a glance.

“They’re taking the zone,” she answers quietly. Her voice is flat and distant.

“They’ve already taken it,” JJ mutters.

Kiara’s shoulders are rigid, jaw set in stone. Her blade stays hidden against her forearm, reversed and ready, but she doesn’t draw it. Her eyes scan the soldiers like a wolf studying a trap.

Then a single gunshot cracks through the air. It echoes like dry thunder, sharp and deliberate—a warning bell struck with lethal intent. It isn’t a warning shot. It’s punctuation.

Ward’s voice returns.

"This settlement is now under interim authority of the Coastal Reclamation Committee," he says, each word falling with deadly precision. "Backed by Federal Reinstatement Order Seven. You are no longer under FEMA oversight."

A new regime has just announced itself.

"If you cooperate," he adds, voice low and warm, "you will eat. You will be safe."

JJ spits into the gravel. “Safe, my ass.”

Kiara stands beside you, blade sheathed again, fists clenched. Her eyes are dark with something else. She’s not trembling. Not panicked. But it’s there in the tightness of her gaze.

Her family isn’t here. They’re in the North Sector.

Safer, for now but only if the sectors stay open.

You step toward her.

“Go,” you say quietly.

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“You have to go. Now. Get to them before the sectors close. If they seal us in—”

“No,” she snaps.

“Kiara, your parents need you. If the gates lock—”

Behind her, a FEMA banner flaps lazily in the wind—already half torn, the emblem faded from sun and time. You realize then: this isn’t just about surviving. This is about refusing to be erased.

JJ steps in. “We need to move. If they’re sweeping zones, we’ll be next.”

“Where?” Pope demands, voice shaking.

But none of you know the answer. Ward’s voice continues to echo through the camp—polished, soothing, full of promises he never intends to keep.

JJ’s eyes flick toward you, the faintest tremor betraying his steel. He’s fighting the urge to break—anger, fear, exhaustion all mingling just beneath the surface.

— 

Each day bleeds into the next with mechanical efficiency— just quiet control, wound tight like wire around every throat. The streets between tents stay still. Not peaceful. Just subdued. People walk with their heads down and their voices lower, if they speak at all. The air itself feels heavier now, like even the wind is afraid to breathe too loud.

The guards patrol move in pairs, always the same slow rhythm, eyes sharp, rifles slung casual but ready. They don’t ask for compliance. They expect it. And somehow, that’s worse.

You work the depot now. They call it “essential,” like that word means something anymore. JJ calls it “playing dead.” Do what they say, keep your mouth shut, don’t look too long in anyone’s direction.

The depot is little more than a lean-to patched together with scrap wood and tarps, its interior cramped and dim, smelling of dust, damp earth, and the faint, sour tang of sweat. Crates pile high on uneven floors, creaking softly under the weight of scarce supplies—canned food, frayed rope, faded blankets.

You stand behind the battered counter, your fingers cold and stiff from the chill creeping in through the thin tent fabric. The quiet is a fragile thing, like glass teetering on the edge of breaking.

Then the tent flap shifts—a slow, deliberate movement that makes your heart hitch. Rafe Cameron steps in, the familiar swagger in his step impossible to miss. His boots hit the dirt floor with a lazy scrape, announcing him like a storm rolling in on the horizon. That crooked toothpick is jammed between his teeth, half-chewed and half-defiant, the same grin tugging at the corner of his mouth that’s gotten so many people into trouble even before.

He leans against a crate with the ease of a man who believes the whole world should bend around him—calm, collected, dangerous. His eyes scan you slowly, cool and assessing, like he’s weighing you for some unspoken gamble. The casual cock of his head makes it clear he’s not just passing through.

From the inside of his jacket, Rafe pulls out a small, crumpled bag. The faint shimmer of pills and powders catches the weak lantern light, a secret treasure in a place where hope is scarce and pain is constant.

“You look like you could use a break,” he says, voice low and smooth like dark whiskey poured over ice. “Something to take the edge off. Just for a little while.” His grin widens, daring you to react.

You rifle through the supply list without looking up. “Not interested.”

He chuckles, a slow, rough sound that scrapes the silence. “Come on, don’t play the saint with me. Everyone’s interested in something.” His gaze locks on your hands, then slides up to meet your eyes with a flicker of challenge. “Even you.”

Your jaw tightens, refusing to show any crack in your calm.

Rafe’s eyes narrow, sharp as broken glass. “You feel like you’re just not like them, huh? You think you’re better? Stronger? Smarter?” His voice drops to a low rumble as he steps closer, heat pressing in.

“Good.” He pushes off the crate with a casual shove, boots scraping as he moves. “Means you’ve still got fight left inside you. But if you ever want to forget this hellhole for a while... you know where to find me.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and intoxicating like smoke. The tent flap rustles behind him as he steps back into the gray light outside, leaving a faint trace of cigarette smoke and something darker.

When the depot work finally lets you go, the sun starts bleeding gold across the tops of the barricades. Your back aches from lifting crates, your fingers numb from the constant cold. You don’t say goodbye to the others—just nod, scrawl your initials on the inventory sheet, and step out into the stillness.

The walk back is muscle memory. Past the burned-out bus used for storage. Past the kids trading battery scraps for dried fruit. Past the watchtower, where the same guard leans on a rusted rifle and doesn’t bother to look twice.

Your tent squats behind a barricade of corrugated metal and old tires, patched with mismatched tarp and duck tape. It’s sagging and smells faintly of kerosene and damp socks, but it’s home. Sort of.

Inside, it’s dim and narrow, lit by a single battery lamp hanging from a bent coat hanger.

JJ’s the first to glance up from his cot. He’s lying back, arms crossed behind his head, eyes watching the ceiling like it owes him answers. His eyes flick to yours, and he starts to sit up slowly, as if he doesn’t want to spook the moment.

“Took your sweet time.”

You drop your pack with a sigh. “They’re saying a shipment’s coming tomorrow. Again.” you mutter, peeling off your jacket and draping it over a nail.

JJ snorts, dry and tired. “Yeah. Right after Santa and the Tooth Fairy.”

You bend over to grab your shower bag from under your cot—a well-worn mess of a thing, with a half-dry towel spilling out of the zipper. You sling it over your shoulder without thinking, already reaching for the tent flap.

But then JJ is there, quietly. He leans close, like he’s always belonged right here, between you and everything else. His hand finds yours with a steady, gentle grip, and before you even have time to think, he lifts your fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. Your fingers curl a bit tighter around his.

You glance at the others—John B crouched by the crate with the busted walkie, Pope nose-deep in a tattered book—but they’re quiet.

John B finally speaks. “You good?”

You pause. Not at the question but at the way he asks it. Like he already knows the answer.

You don’t turn around. “Rafe stopped by the depot today.”

“What the hell did he want?” JJ snaps.

“He didn’t do anything,” you say, voice flat. “He just showed up. Smiling like he runs the whole damn place.”

John B’s stare hardened. “Did he threaten you?”

“No,” you say, too quickly. Then quieter: “Not exactly.”

Pope looks up now, pen frozen in midair. “What does that mean?”

You exhale loud and finally face them. “He offered me something. Pills. Whatever mix he’s pushing now. Said I ‘looked like I needed it.’”

JJ swears under his breath, voice low and sharp. “Son of a—”

“I said no.” You say it firmly, meeting JJ’s eyes.

John B sits up, slow like he’s trying not to explode. “He’s testing us. Seeing who he can buy. Who’ll fold first.”

“He’s already bought half the guards,” Pope mutters.

You nod. “And the other half are scared of what happens if they don’t play along.”

You roll your shoulders, trying to shake the weight off. “I’m going to shower. Before curfew lockdown hits.”

You don’t wait for them to respond—just step toward the tent flap, your hand brushing back your hair as if you could scrape the day off your skin.

The showers aren’t far, just past the rows of tents and the flickering lampposts. A thin trail of steam curls up from the old pipes, promising a brief reprieve from the grime and tension that cling to your skin. You want nothing more than to let the water wash the day’s dirt and fear away.

Suddenly, a faint, unsettling harsh and uneven sound shatters the silence wrapping cold tendrils around your spine, making your skin crawl. Something is wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

Drawn forward by a mix of dread and helpless curiosity, you follow the voices until the path opens onto the clearing by the central plaza. Floodlights blaze down with a cruel, merciless glare, painting everything in harsh, stark whites and deep, choking shadows. The crowd presses in a suffocating wall of faces, eyes wide with horror, mouths set in frozen grimaces.

In the center, bound and kneeling on the cracked concrete, is a man you don’t know but whose terror screams across the cold night like a curse. His skin is pale, his hands raw where the chains bite into his wrists. His head lifts slowly, eyes wild, begging silently for salvation.

A soldier steps forward, his boots thudding deliberate on the cracked ground. He moves like a predator savoring the kill, raising his rifle with terrifying calm, every muscle taut and rehearsed.

The silence swells to a crushing weight, smothering your chest. Time stretches, each second a razor scraping the raw edges of your sanity. Then the man screams—a soul-wrenching, bloodcurdling cry that splits the night, a sound so full of pain it feels like the world itself shatters.

The rifle fires. The crack is a thunderclap in your ears, a violent explosion of sound and finality.

The body convulses, then collapses forward with a sickening thud, chains rattling against the concrete like the clatter of a death knell. The crowd erupts into a wave of gasps and stifled sobs, but the shadows swallow their cries instantly.

A woman’s sob breaks through—raw and ragged, trembling with a grief too deep to bear. A child clings to a man’s leg, face buried in torn fabric, whimpering as the nightmare swallows them whole.

Your stomach churns violently. Your legs threaten to give out, knees buckling under the weight of what you’ve witnessed. Your breath comes in shallow, jagged gasps. You feel your hands tremble, nails digging into your palms.

You stagger back a step, your heel catching on a crack in the concrete. The stumble jolts you, but it’s not enough to break the spell, the frozen horror rooting you to the spot. The stench of gunpowder and blood burns your nose. You can taste it, sharp and metallic at the back of your throat.

You barely make it out of the clearing, the brutal shot still ringing in your ears, the weight of what you saw pressing down like a stone in your chest. The loudspeakers crackle somewhere in the distance, announcing curfew with a cold, unyielding voice.

You’re almost halfway back to your tent when you hear hurried footsteps behind you, crunching sharply on gravel and broken concrete.

“Damn, there you are,” JJ calls out, voice tense but relieved.

You freeze for a moment, heart hammering so hard you think he might hear it from across the yard.

Then, ahead, you see him. JJ’s silhouette framed by the flickering light of a lone lamppost, his chest heaving like he’s been sprinting. His eyes catch yours instantly wide, frantic, full of questions.

John B and Pope aren’t far behind, the two of them moving with cautious urgency, scanning the dark spaces between tents. Pope’s gaze is sharp, calculating, watching shadows like they’re already enemies.

JJ reaches you first, closing the distance in just a few quick steps. He stops right in front of you, breath ragged, and for a second, he just stares, as if trying to analyze your face.

“Are you okay? We heard a shot-”

You swallow hard, struggling to steady your voice. “I saw… a soldier. He shot someone.”

JJ’s jaw knot with tension. “God... why didn’t anyone stop him?”

John B steps up beside JJ, glancing warily toward the plaza. “No one’s stopping anything around here,” he says bitterly, voice low. “Not anymore.”

Pope’s eyes flick between the three of you, unblinking. “Curfew’s on now. We shouldn’t be out here.”

JJ’s hand slides from your arm to gently grip your shoulder, grounding you both. His breath is hot and ragged against your skin.

You try to collect yourself. “There was a kid watching.”

You see it hit him. His face twists, something ugly and aching flickering across it before he covers it with his hand, scrubbing at his mouth like he’s trying to erase the thought. “Jesus.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything.

— 

You stir awake slowly to the distant sound of boots crunching gravel, someone yelling nearby. You blink up at the patched ceiling, barely lit by the low wash of cloud-filtered sunlight. JJ’s still next to you, head tipped back, eyes closed but not sleeping. His thumb absently runs along your shoulder, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Morning,” he mutters, voice raspy.

“Did you sleep?” you ask quietly.

He snorts. “Not really.”

A beat passes. He pulls his arm away gently and sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “C’mon. The guys are probably already in the mess.”

The mess tent buzzes with low conversation and clinking metal, but the energy is wrong—too quiet in some places, too forced in others, like everyone’s pretending to be okay just loud enough to drown out what they really feel.

JJ slides into a spot at the back, and you follow him, settling next to him on the worn bench. John B and Pope are already there, mid-conversation, which dies the second they see you.

Pope gives a soft nod. John B offers a small, quiet smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you answer, but your voice is thin.

The silence that follows stretches a little too long.

JJ is the first one to break it. “Coffee’s cold,” he mutters, nodding toward the cup in front of him. “Surprise, surprise.”

You nod absently, but your hands stay folded in your lap. You haven’t touched the food they gave you—gray eggs, something trying to pass for fruit. None of it tastes like anything. Most of the real food’s long gone, and anything with yeast or fermentation is banned outright now—too risky since the infection’s roots. Bread, beer, even old canned stuff—it’s all suspect. One bite of the wrong thing, and it could be over.

“So,” Pope says finally, “didn’t hear anything on the radios this morning. Not even a curfew recap.”

John B doesn’t look up from his mug. “Yeah. Maybe they think silence is scarier now.”

JJ glances at you, then quickly away. “They’d be right.”

It hangs there.

You close your eyes for a second. The man’s face flashes behind your eyelids—wide-eyed, terrified, every part of him shaking. And then the scream. You press your thumb hard against your palm like you can dig the sound out of your memory.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you murmur, voice tight. “I just stood there.”

“No one blames you,” Pope says immediately. “You weren’t supposed to be there. You didn’t choose to see that.”

JJ’s jaw tightens. “But they wanted someone to see it. That’s the part I can’t shake. They wanted it to spread.”

“But what if it doesn’t change anything?” you ask, the words slipping out raw. “What if it’s just... fear now? Every morning, every second.”

John B gives you a half-smile. It’s tired, but genuine. “We’ve been through worse. Sort of.”

“Not exactly the same vibe as treasure hunting,” Pope snaps, tone heavy with irony.

JJ smiles, faint but sincere, and bumps your knee. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll get through this too.”

A ripple of murmurs rolls through the mess tent—trays shift, heads turn—just enough commotion to make you glance toward the entrance.

Sarah stands in the doorway, wind‑tangled hair framing a face pulled tight with fatigue. She clocks the room then spots your table and weaves through the maze of benches.

She drops onto the end of the bench beside Pope, hands wrapped around a dented metal mug she hasn’t even filled. For a heartbeat no one speaks; the hush around the five of you feels suddenly deeper, like the tent itself is eavesdropping.

John B breaks it first, voice low. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, but her eyes flick to you—an unspoken you saw it too. “Listen, I don’t have long.”

Pope leans in. “What was the real reason they shot that guy?”

Sarah’s voice drops to a razor’s edge. “He was moving Rafe’s stash. Out of the zone. South QZ.”

John B’s brow furrows. “Why?”

She shrugs. “No clue. Might’ve been a trade. But it was the Coastal sector. Completely locked down. No shipments in weeks.”

You glance up. “Then why’s today’s drop coming from there?”

Sarah hesitates. “Exactly.”

Pope frowns. “Nobody said anything about that.”

“They won’t,” she says. “They don’t want panic.”

And then you hear it—

CLANG.

The checkpoint bell rings once, slow and loud. Metal on metal. That unmistakable sound:

Inbound shipment. Gate Three.

— 

You stand at the edge of the depot yard, clipboard clenched so tight your knuckles blanch, trying to ignore how your fingers twitch uncontrollably. Around you, the usual skeleton crew lingers—two guards, half-asleep and slumped against the cracked concrete, rifles dangling from loose grips.

You lift your eyes.

A shadow crosses the barricade wall—tall, boxy, slow-moving. One of the old FEMA trucks, paint worn down to raw metal in patches, pulling up like a ghost from the past. Two more trucks follow behind, tires grinding against cracked asphalt.

The convoy stops.

You take a small step forward. One guard lifts a hand, as if willing the moment to hold steady.

The passenger door creaks open.

A man in standard QZ gray steps down. His sleeves hang past his wrists, and his eyes look distant, unfocused. He moves slowly, as if his body doesn’t know where it is.

Behind him, another figure stumbles off the second truck. Then another. None say a word.

Your skin prickles.

“Manifest?” you ask, voice barely steady.

The first man turns to you—bloodshot eyes, pale skin marred by dirt and exhaustion. He shakes his head, then holds out a folded paper. His hand trembles.

You take it, unfolding the sheet carefully.

Names. Too many names. You flip the page.

And your breath catches.

Your mother’s name, printed clear as daylight.

Your world tilts.

You don’t remember moving, but suddenly you’re at the truck, boots crunching gravel.

“Back away,” a guard mutters, but his voice is thin, uncertain.

More passengers climb down—slow, unsteady, fragile.

Then you see her.

Her hair is longer, tangled. Her shoulders thinner, slumped as if the weight of everything she’s been through is pressing her down. Her jacket zipped up tight against the warm air, like a shield.

But it’s her.

Your chest tightens. Your heart clenches and shatters at once. You blink, once, twice, like your eyes are lying to you. But the shape doesn't change. It’s her. It’s really her.

“Mom?” The word escapes before you can stop it—soft, trembling, like a prayer finally answered.

She looks up.

Her eyes find yours.

In that instant, something inside her cracks. She takes two tentative steps forward.

Her mouth opens, voice rough and ragged. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The words scrape out of her throat, jagged and raw.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. You step closer, heart breaking open.

“I thought... I thought you were gone,” you say, your eyes filling with tears.

She flinches, like you might break. “I tried… I tried so hard to stay away.”

Tears glisten in her dirt-streaked face. “You need to leave.”

You reach out, but she pulls back, swaying.

One hand clutches her ribs, blood dark and spreading beneath her sleeve.

Your stomach twists, the sick taste of fear curling your tongue. No. No, this can’t be happening. Not now.

“Mom… what happened?” Your voice cracks, desperate.

She shakes her head, voice barely a whisper. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”

She sinks to her knees.

That’s when you see it.

A bite mark, half-hidden under her jacket.

Cold ice spreads through your stomach, freezing every thought, every hope.

Too late.

From the third truck—a scream.

Not fear.

Rage.

One evacuee leaps like a wild animal, tackling a guard, teeth flashing. Blood spatters the side of the truck.

The crowd scatters.

She looks up, tears cutting clean lines through dirt and sweat.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice breaking.

Your mind races, memories flooding in—her laughter, her warmth, the way she held you when you were afraid. And now this... this monster wearing her skin. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Not like this.

You take a step toward her, but a deafening gunshot cracks through the depot yard.

One of the guards drops the infected evacuee mid-lunge, but it doesn’t matter. Three more are already on top of him before his rifle even hits the ground. The second guard turns to run—too slow. A woman in tattered clothes barrels into him, jaw clamping down on his throat with a wet, animal crunch.

Your knees buckle. You stumble backward, catching yourself hard against a rusted supply crate. The clipboard slips from your hand and clatters to the dirt. As you steady yourself, your hand brushes cold metal—a crowbar, half-buried under a torn tarp.

Without thinking, you grab it. The weight anchors you, gives your shaking fingers something to hold.

All around you, the evacuees transform.

Some scream. Some convulse. Some simply go still for a heartbeat too long… then snap upright, jerking with unnatural speed. A man with blood down his chin slams himself headfirst against the depot fence, snarling through broken teeth.

A siren starts to wail somewhere inside the QZ. Distant, confused. Too late.

Your mother is still kneeling. Shaking. Her breathing is ragged now, wet.

You drop down in front of her. “Mom, we have to move. Please—”

She lifts her face. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. Sweat drips from her temple. “You have to go,” she rasps.

“I’m not—”

From the depot gate, a series of sharp pops—more gunfire. Screams rise, closer now. A flaming body stumbles from the second truck, crashes into a stack of fuel drums.

The explosion hits like a thunderclap.

You’re thrown off your feet, the blast wave ringing in your ears. Smoke swallows the world in an instant. Flames roar to life, leaping skyward and casting long, jerking shadows of the infected as they pour from the trucks.

The QZ alarm shifts to evacuation tone. Sharp, urgent. That sound—the one you were never supposed to hear.

You crawl back to your knees, coughing, blinking through the smoke. Your mother is still there. Still breathing.

You reach for her, and she reaches back—but then freezes. Her breath catches.

Another evacuee stumbles into view behind her, growling low, movements twitchy and sharp. You react without thinking—grabbing a loose piece of rebar from the ground, swinging hard.

It connects with a sickening crunch. The evacuee drops.

You stare at what’s left of their skull, chest heaving.

Your mother is crying now—quiet, defeated sobs that cut through the chaos like a blade. “You need to run.”

The depot is burning. People are running. The screams are growing fainter—not because they’re stopping, but because they’re being overrun.

You hear boots pounding gravel. A figure stumbles through the smoke—JJ, blood on his jacket. “We have to move—now!”

You hesitate, looking back.

Your mother’s hands are in her lap. She’s shaking, and that light—her light—is dimming fast. She meets your eyes one last time, and in it, you see everything she’s trying to say:

I love you. I’m sorry. Go.

JJ yells again. “Come on!”

You rise slowly, heart breaking in real time. She doesn’t move to follow.

As you turn and run into the smoke, past fire and rubble, past bodies and memories, a second explosion rocks the yard.

This one doesn’t knock you over. But it takes what’s left of her with it.

The shockwave chases you, heat licking at your back like the breath of some hellish beast. You don’t turn around. You can’t. The part of you that wants to is screaming, clawing at your insides, but you shove it down. Keep moving. Just keep moving.

JJ’s hand grabs your arm, steadying you as you trip over broken pavement. “This way,” he growls, his voice hoarse. “Evac route through the maintenance tunnel—go!”

You don’t answer. Your throat is raw, heart thundering. Smoke wraps around you like a shroud, turning the world into a blur of shadow and flame. Behind you, the depot is a furnace.

You and JJ duck under a collapsed security gate, stumbling into a narrow side alley flanked by rusted-out storage containers. Somewhere behind you, gunfire rattles—short bursts, then silence. Too much silence.

JJ yanks open a hatch embedded in the cracked asphalt. “Down!” he barks.

You hesitate at the edge. The ladder descends into pitch black.

The tunnel is damp, the air thick with mildew and old decay. JJ seals the hatch behind you, and darkness swallows the world until his flashlight flickers to life, casting your long shadows ahead like ghosts.

You don’t speak as you move. Each step echoes with the weight of everything lost.

After what feels like miles, the tunnel begins to slope up. Your legs burn. Your lungs ache. At last, a second hatch looms above. JJ pushes it open carefully, peering out before giving the all-clear.

You emerge into a narrow corridor on the outer edge of the quarantine zone—once a service route, now a forgotten gap between fences. You can still hear the sirens behind you, distant and broken. The sky above is dull orange with smoke, but the streets here are quiet. For now.

You collapse against a wall, hands trembling. JJ crouches beside you, watching the way your shoulders shake, the way you stare at nothing.

“She was alive,” you whisper.

JJ nods slowly. “And she saved your life.”

You close your eyes. Try to hold onto that. Try to believe it.

I should’ve gone back,” you choke out. “The others… what if they didn’t make it out?”

“They did.”

You look up sharply. “What?”

“I saw them,” JJ says, voice tight. “They were heading for the fuel yard. Right after the first truck lit up”

He swallows hard, eyes searching yours. “They made it out. They had to.”

Then a new sound cuts through the quiet.

A low, rattling breath. Wet. Gurgling.

JJ’s head snaps toward the end of the alley. His flashlight beam sweeps across peeling brick, broken pallets—and a figure slumped just beyond a dumpster. It twitches.

He raises his weapon, but you grab his arm. “No,” you breathe. “Let me.”

You step forward. The shape groans, dragging itself toward you. Its eyes are wrong—cloudy, animal. Its fingers scrape the concrete like claws.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You swing the crowbar, fast and hard. It collapses with a sickening thud.

And silence falls again.

[darkparablesfan]

After the tide turns – Part 3

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: implied violence, swearing, military control, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, not fully proof-read, english is not my first language!

a/n: Slowly but surely, we are getting there… If you’re reading this, you deserve a gold star. ✨ Thanks for sticking with me!! Any feedback is really appreciated 😊

word count: 4k

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan

Life in the QZ isn’t like living.

It’s more like… waiting.

Waiting for news. For food. For permission. For a miracle you stopped believing in somewhere between the evacuation and the gates slamming shut behind you.

The sky’s gone pale again. Not pink, not gold—just pale. Like the world forgot how to feel color all the way through. You sit on the edge of a shipping crate near the eastern fence line, picking at the unraveling seam of your sleeve, boots scraping against gravel. From here, you can see the perimeter dogs pacing like clockwork and the rusted-out Humvees resting like carcasses in the dirt.

It’s been three weeks since the first night in the quarantine zone. Since you learned to sleep through shouting, searchlights, and the endless rumble of generators that make your molars ache.

You hear someone crunching over gravel and don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

You don’t turn around. You already know the sound of him. JJ’s footsteps are lazy, a little heavy in the heel. He drops beside you with the kind of exhausted grace that comes from too many late shifts moving supply crates or fixing broken floodlights. He’s radiating heat and the faint scent of metal and sweat and stale nicotine. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just rests his elbows on his knees and looks out over the fence like the ocean might still be out there somewhere, waiting.

His hair’s even messier than usual—cowlicks twisting toward the sun like they’re searching for something.

He nudges your knee with his. “You ghosted breakfast.”

“Didn’t feel like fighting over powdered eggs,” you mutter.

JJ exhales through his nose. “Fair. I think Pope almost got shanked over a granola bar.”

You smile, but it’s small, and tired. You tilt your head until it rests against his shoulder. “I was thinking about my mom again.”

JJ goes quiet. He doesn’t shift away.

“She’s out there somewhere,” you say softly. “Unless… I don’t know. Maybe she got picked up by another zone. Maybe she’s at that coastal one they keep talking about on the boards.”

JJ’s holding your hand tightly. “You’ll see her again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he admits. “But I know you. You don’t quit.”

You want to believe him. You do. But it’s hard to carry hope without it slipping through your fingers. Especially when they won’t even let you near the comms tent unless you’ve got military clearance or something to trade that matters more than your bones.

There’s a sudden movement to your side, a quiet rustling of fabric. You glance up just in time to see JJ disappearing behind a stack of crates near the supply tent. He moves like a shadow, quick and quiet, but there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s used to this, like he’s been here before.

You don’t say anything. You just watch him for a moment, your curiosity piqued. A few moments later, JJ reappears, slipping back into place beside you with a satisfied look on his face. He’s got a small, wrapped snack in his hand, the edges a little crumpled from being shoved into his pocket. Without a word, he presses it into your palm.

You glance from the snack back up to him. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” JJ says, casual, like he didn’t just make a quick getaway to steal something from the supply tent. His eyes flick to the chocolate bar in your hand and then back to the fence.

You raise an eyebrow. “JJ, you didn’t—”

“…anyway,”he interrupts with a grin.

You can’t help but shake your head, but you tear open the wrapper anyway. JJ had a way of getting things others couldn't, which always made you uneasy. It wasn’t that you doubted his intentions, but the others, they might not be so understanding when someone needed a favor in exchange.

You take a bite, savoring the sweet, chocolatey taste that feels like a little piece of normalcy in all this chaos.

JJ watches you, waiting for your reaction. You break off a piece and hold it out to him. “Share with me.”

For a moment, he looks surprised, like he didn’t expect you to offer it. But then he grins, shaking his head. “Nah, you go ahead.”

You raise an eyebrow, insistent. “No, really. You’ve been working way harder than me.”

You pass him half of your bar, watching as he takes it with a smile. He takes a bite, looking over at you in that quiet way, like he’s trying to read something in your expression.

You lean back a little, feeling the warm weight of the moment settle between the two of you.

Before you can say anything else, Pope’s voice echoes across the lot. “Guys!”

You both look up. He’s running, backpack bouncing against his side, glasses crooked from the wind.

JJ stands first. “What happened?”

Pope’s face is flushed, breath hitching. “They’re here. My parents. They’re—they got moved from Charlotte last night. I just saw them by the med tent.”

Something lifts in your chest. “That’s amazing, Pope.”

He nods, eyes wide with something that looks like relief and fear. “They look older. I think my dad broke his arm, but… they’re here.”

JJ claps a hand on his back. “Go. What’re you still doing talking to us?”

Pope grins and bolts, disappearing between tents. For a second, it makes everything else feel… less heavy.

JJ slides a hand down his face. “First win we’ve had since we got here.”

You look at him. “You think we’ll get something good too?”

He doesn’t answer, not at first. But his pinky hooks around yours again. Quiet promise.

You spend the afternoon helping unload new arrivals—quiet, dazed people with burned skin and plastic bags holding their whole lives. You don’t talk much. JJ passes out bottled water and smokes half a cigarette with a soldier who probably shouldn’t be sharing, but no one cares anymore, not really.

Late in the day, Kiara appears with mud-splattered boots, hair tied up and her sleeves rolled. She’s not supposed to be in your sector but she comes when she can, when the guards aren’t paying attention.

She grins when she sees you. “You look like shit.”

“Love you too,” you mutter, tug her into a hug that’s tighter than the insult deserves.

Kiara slides in next to JJ without a word, grabbing a few ration packs from the open bin between them. They’ve done this routine so many times it barely needs words now. She starts stacking cans methodically, hands practiced and fast.

JJ eyes her arrangement. “You’re doing it backwards.”

“No, I’m doing it correctly,” Kiara mutters, not looking up. “You stack the lentils at the bottom. They’re the heaviest.”

JJ scoffs under his breath. “I swear you just make these rules up to mess with me.”

“Or,” she says, with mock patience, “I’ve actually been paying attention to what doesn’t fall over every five seconds.”

Their bickering is familiar, not sharp, not even irritated. Just two people who’ve learned how to fill silence with noise. You crouch nearby, sorting through dented cans for something that doesn’t look like it used to be dog food.

John B’s voice cuts across the yard before anyone can escalate. “Guess who found the holy grail.”

He struts toward them with that same crooked grin he’s always had, the one that somehow survived everything else. A can pokes out from the front of his jacket.

You lift an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

He yanks it free with a flourish. “Peaches.”

“Those are for the med tent,” Pope calls from a few feet away, where he’s digging through a box of old boots. “You can’t just take them.”

“Correction: I didn’t take. I liberated.”

JJ gives a low whistle. “Man’s out here stealing from the sick. That’s bold.”

“Man’s out here about to get a black eye if he doesn’t share,” Kiara adds, eyes narrowing.

John B clutches the can dramatically to his chest. “This is mine now. My prize. My—”

“—your funeral,” JJ says, tossing an empty wrapper at him.

You let yourself laugh softly, the sound catching a little in your throat. The air is thick with smoke from a nearby burn barrel, and it’s started to sink into, your hair, your skin. The world always smells like smoke now. Like something just barely holding on.

JJ turns toward the group, elbow resting on his knee. “Okay, actual question. How many cans of peaches do I have to ‘accidentally find’ before they make me mayor?”

John B doesn’t even look up. “At least twelve. And a working flashlight.”

Pope scoffs. “You? Mayor? You’d try to trade the job for batteries and a hammock.”

JJ points at him. “Exactly. Efficient government.”

You give him a sideways glance. “Pretty sure bribery disqualifies you.”

“Not if it’s delicious bribery,” JJ says, grinning. “I’d be a people’s leader. Generous.”

“And very unhinged,” Pope mutters.

JJ shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

The wind kicks up, rattling the sheet metal roofs on the makeshift shelters. A soldier’s voice echoes across the lot, muffled by a bullhorn and distance. Somewhere near the north end, a child starts to cry. No one flinches anymore. It’s just part of the background.

The fire in the barrel pops, sending sparks spiraling upward.

And for a moment—just a breath—it feels like maybe this is what the end of the world looks like. Not fire. Not chaos. Just people. Still here. Still reaching. Still arguing over stolen peaches like any of it might matter in the end.

It almost feels like before.

Just before sundown, near the old church building that’s been converted into a registration center, you spot her.

It doesn’t register at first. The blonde hair is tangled from wind and days on the road. She’s thinner, face hollowed at the edges, and her eyes scan the yard like she’s looking for a way out—flicking from soldier to tent to crowd, never settling.

But then the light hits her just right, and your breath leaves your lungs.

“Sarah?” you whisper.

JJ freezes beside you, head whipping around. “Wait—what?”

John B’s head snaps around before you even realize you said it aloud. He sees her the same moment she sees him. The distance between them cracks—ten feet, maybe twelve—but it closes fast.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, and then he’s moving.

He drops the can of peaches without a second thought, arms swinging, legs already breaking into a sprint. Sarah meets him halfway. She doesn’t even hesitate. The duffel slips from her shoulder and hits the ground with a thud.

They collide like gravity pulling them into each other—arms locking tight, her feet almost leaving the ground. John B wraps her up like something he’s been afraid to hope for. One of his hands cradles the back of her head. She buries her face in his collarbone and stays there. Behind her, Ward Cameron stands talking to an officer like he’s negotiating a deal. He doesn’t look like someone who’s spent weeks scrounging beneath fences or sleeping in transport trucks.

Beside him, Rafe is slouched against the gate, blood dried on his sleeve, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s already bored of the apocalypse.

Sarah spots you. Her eyes go wide.

You take a step forward, but then she’s running.

You meet halfway, crashing into each other like the sea slamming against rock. Her arms lock around your shoulders, and you feel her tremble in the spaces where she lets herself breathe.

“I thought you were dead,” she says.

“I thought you were,” you whisper.

JJ stands a few feet away, blinking like he’s not sure this is real. His hand curls at his side. Guarded. Watching the Camerons with wary eyes.

JJ hasn’t moved. He’s standing a few feet off, staring like he’s waiting for the ground to crack open under all of you. His jaw tightens when Rafe finally notices you. His smile’s too slow, too sharp.

Sarah notices, too. Her grip tightens. “Things got bad after, but… he got us here. He got us in.” she says quickly.

You glance over her shoulder at Ward, who’s still deep in conversation with one of the guards—handing over paperwork like he’s negotiating a business deal instead of survival. He’s clean, shaven, somehow not sunburned. That alone sets him apart from the rest of you.

JJ’s still watching Ward. “He’s not staying in here long, not like this.” he mutters. “You think Ward Cameron’s gonna sleep on a cot next to strangers and a leaking ceiling? Nah. He’s already working his angle.”

Sarah doesn’t deny it.

Ward had always known how to make himself indispensable. It was just a matter of time before someone realized how much he was controlling.

The generator sputters behind you, kicking into a louder gear. More floodlights flicker on. Night is coming fast now, and the air's cooling too quickly, the kind that sinks into your sleeves and stays. You wrap your arms around yourself, grounding.

JJ steps closer, brushing your elbow. “We should go. They’ll start lockdown soon.”

You nod, but look back to Sarah. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

Sarah’s eyes soften. “Try and stop me.”

She squeezes your arm before slipping away into the registration line, already half-swallowed by the crowd. You watch her go until the knot in your throat threatens to choke you.

JJ is quiet beside you, hands jammed into his pockets. His expression is unreadable—guarded, tight around the mouth. You know that look. You’ve seen it when he’s cornered. When he’s thinking too much and saying too little.

You bump his arm gently. “You okay?”

He lets out a short breath that could be a laugh or a scoff. “Yeah. I just… wasn’t expecting ghosts today.”

You glance back toward Ward and Rafe. They’re still at the edge of the yard, somehow untouched by the grime and wear the rest of you carry like a second skin.

JJ notices your stare. “He’s gonna try something. You know that, right?”

“Ward always tries something,” you murmur.

JJ shrugs, but his jaw clenches again. “People like him don’t just show up. They maneuver.”

You nod slowly. You’ve lived with hope long enough to know it cuts both ways—sharper than loss, if you’re not careful.

A voice crackles over the loudspeaker: “Evening lockdown in ten. All residents report to assigned shelter zones.”

JJ groans under his breath. “Great. Home sweet sardine can.”

He doesn’t move, though. Not until your hand brushes his. His fingers twitch, then curl around yours, warm and familiar.

— 

The next morning comes too quickly. You wake to the sound of metal groaning.

It scrapes low and long from somewhere outside the tent, followed by the crunch of gravel under boots and the faint clatter of something being dropped—wood? metal? It’s hard to tell anymore. Everything echoes here. The ground is cold beneath the thin cot, the air dense with damp and the chemical stink of bleach and diesel. And for one moment—one still, breathless moment—you forget where you are.

Then you feel him.

JJ is curled behind you, legs tangled with yours, his arm heavy across your waist like he didn’t trust the world not to steal you again. His forehead is pressed between your shoulder blades, breath warm and steady against the fabric of your shirt. One of his fingers twitches in sleep where it rests just below your ribs, the faintest, unconscious motion. Holding on. You’re not sure when the two of you fell asleep like this, tangled and folded together on the cot, like exhaustion finally cracked the last of your defenses and you just… collapsed inward. Toward each other. His arm is draped across your ribs now, not heavy, but anchoring.

You don’t move.

If you move, the morning will start. The world will come back into focus: the fences, the checkpoints, the unreadable stares from the guards. The silence of people who’ve lost too much to speak freely. If you move, you might break this fragile, borrowed peace.

So you stay still and stare at the tent ceiling—stained canvas stretched tight across metal poles, little tears along the seams letting in soft beams of light. Dust floats in those shafts like something sacred. Motes of gold suspended in breathless air.

Across the tent, the others are silent.

John B is bundled under a worn blanket on the far cot, one arm flung over his eyes like it’s the only way to keep the nightmares out. Pope lies curled into himself, glasses askew on his face, one hand still clinging to a spiral notebook. He keeps it like it’s armor. Like if he documents enough, he might make sense of the senseless.

JJ stirs against you, a small exhale catching in his throat. He shifts slightly, his fingers tightening for a second. You feel the moment his breathing changes. His awareness returning.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something heavier. “You still here?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Just reach back and find his hand, linking your fingers. His grip tightens instantly.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just exhales slow and deep, like he’s trying to hold the moment steady. Then, a soft laugh stirs the back of your neck.

“That burst last time… what do you think? SMG?”

You wait a beat before replying, just to mess with him. “Nah. Too clean. That was a rifle. Suppressed, maybe.”

The game had started as a joke, something stupid to pass the time while the world crumbled outside. Every distant pop in the night — a single shot, a burst, a rumble — became a challenge. Guess the caliber. The weapon. The direction.

It was the dumbest game you’d ever played. It also kept you sane.

“God, you’re so wrong.” His voice is warm against your spine, laced with a grin. “Definitely an SMG. Close range. You can always hear the tighter recoil if you actually pay attention.”

You scoff, quiet. “I do pay attention. You’re just mad I’m better at this than you.”

He huffs, the sound low in his chest. “Please. You thought a pistol was a shotgun last week.”

“That was one time.”

He laughs, soft and muffled. You can feel it more than hear it.

Beyond the canvas walls, the world stirs.

You hear voices—low, tense. A cough, close enough to make your skin crawl. The slap of a tarp in the wind. Somewhere far off, dogs bark in clipped, controlled bursts. You can picture them: lean, alert, leashed to perimeter poles, trained to bite first and ask questions later.

Then, all at once, a sound cuts through it all.

A siren. Sharp and mechanical.

A single sharp burst, brief yet freezing your veins with ice. Just enough to hush every whisper, halt every movement in its tracks.

JJ jerks upright behind you, his hand still tangled in yours. His eyes are wide, shoulders already braced like he’s waiting for the sky to fall.

Across the tent, John B scrambles upright, kicking free of his blanket. “Shit. That’s not the generator alarm.”

Pope’s notebook hits the floor with a soft slap. “External breach?”

“No.” JJ shakes his head. “Too short. That was… a signal.”

JJ’s already halfway to the flap before you fully stand. That tight, coiled readiness in his body—it’s not just adrenaline. It’s him, defaulting to fight when everything inside you screams “hide.”

You’re already shoving your boots on, heart kicking hard against your ribs. Your fingers tremble as you tug the laces, mind racing through every possibility, none of them good. As you move, your boot crunches something. The chocolate wrapper from yesterday, half-buried in the dirt. Sweetness turned to trash in less than a day.

Kiara appears in the tent flap like she was summoned by the noise. “South gate’s flooded. At least twenty coming through, unannounced. They weren’t on any of the incoming rosters.”

“How the hell did they get past clearance?” Pope asks.

“They didn’t,” she says grimly. “Someone let them in.”

The words hang heavy, more accusation than theory. You exchange a glance with JJ. It doesn’t need to be said. You’re all thinking the same thing: Ward.

You stand, brushing off your knees, and Kiara grabs your arm. “It’s bad. Some of them are armed. Guards are on edge. If they panic, it’s gonna turn ugly fast.”

John B is already halfway to the exit, voice sharp. “Where’s Sarah?”

Kiara shakes her head. “I haven’t seen her. But I saw Rafe. He’s walking the fence line like he owns it.”

JJ curses under his breath, teeth clenched. “Of course he is.”

You shoulder your pack on instinct, even though it’s mostly empty. Just the essentials. A flashlight. A knife. A few protein bars. You don’t wait to be told anymore. You just move.

Outside, the yard is chaos.

People swarm in clusters, some still in pajamas, others half-geared up, heads swiveling like prey. Soldiers bark orders, trying to herd the crowd away from the south gate. One of the guards near the tower has his rifle unslung and ready, finger twitching on the trigger guard. That alone sends ice down your spine.

JJ glances at you, his fingers brushing your elbow. “Stay close, alright?”

You nod, not because you’re worried, but because losing someone in all this chaos is a feeling you never want to know again.

Beyond the fence, you can just make out a line of new arrivals: sunburned, dust-coated, and in worse shape than any group you've seen come through so far. But it’s not the condition they’re in that sets you on edge—it’s their eyes. Hard. Watchful. Like they’re casing the place instead of seeking refuge.

And at the front of the pack, calm as ever, stands Ward Cameron.

He’s not saying anything. Not smiling. Not pretending to be charitable. He just meets the gaze of every soldier like he’s already made a deal they haven’t caught up to yet.

JJ steps up beside you. “He brought them in to flip leverage. Trade power for people.”

You nod slowly. “And now he’s got numbers.”

Pope runs up, glasses askew again, breath tight. “Command tent’s already closed ranks. Nobody’s saying anything.”

John B rounds on him. “Sarah?”

Pope hesitates. “I think I saw her near the med tent. But… she didn’t look happy.”

JJ’s hand grazes your back. “We need to find her.”

You nod again. Then the second siren goes off—shorter this time, sharper. Two bursts. You all freeze.

Kiara curses. “That’s a weapons-lock signal.”

Soldiers rush the fence line. Rifles up. Safeties off.

Ward raises both hands, calm and slow. He says something to the guard captain—too far away to hear, but it makes the captain’s shoulders square up like he’s been slapped.

Then the gate opens.

You stagger forward half a step, disbelief crashing through your ribs.

“No, no, no,” JJ mutters, pulling you back with a hand around your arm. “They’re not just letting them in.”

But they are.

The first wave steps through in a staggered, predatory formation—no panic, no desperation. Just calm calculation. One of them has a machete slung through his belt like a warning.

The guards didn’t raise weapons. That was the worst part. They just watched. Like they were waiting. Like they'd been told to let it happen.

John B pushes forward, eyes locked on Sarah, who’s appeared at the edge of the med tent, frozen in place. She sees the men enter. Sees her father behind them. Her eyes flick to you, wide and furious.

You see it before she even moves.

She turns—and bolts.

“Sarah!” John B shouts, taking off after her.

JJ’s already pulling you, his voice low and steady. “We can’t be near the front. Not when this goes bad.”

Kiara’s on your other side now, fingers already around the blade at her hip. “This is a takeover.”

“No,” you breathe, watching Ward stride through the gate like a man arriving to claim a throne. “It’s already done.”

[darkparablesfan]

the gang's all here! commence slumber party

[darkparablesfan]

my personal hc is that all of Silver's hand-me-downs are brand new

[darkparablesfan]

After the tide turns – Part 2

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: Outbreak violence, swearing, blood, military control, medical testing, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, not fully proof-read, english is not my first language!

a/n: Hi all, I'm trying to speed up the uploads for the next parts!! bear with me, hope you enjoy this one, and as always, feedback is my fuel!♥ 🫂 sorry for any mistakes this was written at 1am

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan

word count: 3.1k

They shove JJ through the tent flap like he’s livestock.

He stumbles forward, jaw tight, hands raised halfway—half threat, half surrender.

“Yo—hands off, alright?” JJ snaps, ripping his arm back. “I’m walking. I got legs.”

The soldier doesn’t even blink. Just gestures him forward with the muzzle of his rifle.

JJ steps inside, breathing hard. The air hits him like a gut punch—stale bleach and copper, like a hospital and a slaughterhouse had a baby. A plastic chair faces a folding table where some exhausted looking guy in scrubs rubs his face like he’d rather be anywhere else. JJ sizes him up immediately, definitely not military. Probably a volunteer. Or a hostage, it’s hard to tell.

“Sit,” the guy mutters without looking.

JJ exhales through his nose, jaw tight. His pulse is a hammer in his ears. He hates all of this. Being separated, feeling caged. “Don’t love the whole secret-experiment vibes you got going here.”

The medic just gestures at the chair. JJ huffs and finally sits, bouncing his knee like he’s got a bomb under his skin.

“Any symptoms?” the guy asks, reaching for a scanner.

“No,” JJ snaps. “Unless being pissed off counts.”

“Any injuries?”

“Just from running for my life,” JJ says. “And I’m not the one biting people, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

The scanner beeps over his arm. Clear. The medic doesn’t react. Just scribbles on a clipboard like this is all a Tuesday.

JJ catches sight of the blood still crusted on his sleeve from earlier—yours, maybe. Maybe his. Doesn’t matter. The guy’s eyes flick to it.

“That’s not mine,” JJ says quickly, voice dropping a notch. “Or, like—it is. But not in the way you’re thinking.”

“I didn’t ask,” the medic mutters, pulling out a needle.

JJ jerks his arm away. “That’s not happening.”

“It’s a blood test.”

“That’s how the guy dies first.”

The medic rolls his eyes. “You want into the safe zone, I need a sample.”

JJ stares him down. You want into the safe zone, like it’s a goddamn hotel check-in. He swears under his breath and sticks out his arm.

“Better be a small needle,” he mutters. “I’m delicate.”

The guy draws the blood, no apology, no words. JJ watches it leave him—dark, thick. Like it means something. The medic labels it. JJ catches a half-smudged FEMA logo on the label. Doesn’t feel real.

The guy turns to a beat-up laptop and starts typing.

JJ’s leg bounces again. “So what, you get my blood, and then what? Put me in a box?”

“If you’re clean, you’re processed into long-term QZ,” the medic says.

JJ eyes the tent flap behind him. Two guards. No way out unless he wants a bullet in the back. He leans back in the chair, tension simmering just under his skin.

The tent flap rustles. A soldier pokes his head in. “He cleared?”

The medic nods. “Yeah. Temporary zone C, until results are verified.”

“Move,” the soldier says.

JJ swears under his breath, then lets the soldier shove him toward the exit.

Outside, the air’s just as stale, just as suffocating. Rows of tents. Military patrols. Screaming in the distance. Somewhere, a baby’s crying.

And he can’t see you or the others.

They walk him to a chain-link gate, buzz it open, and shove him into a makeshift compound—plastic walls, cots, people wrapped in blankets like ghosts. JJ turns in a slow circle, scanning faces, heart pounding.

You’re not here. Not yet.

He sinks onto an empty cot, elbows on knees, fingers curled into his hair.

If you don’t come back out, he feels like he will burn the place down.

— 

The cot feels like punishment. Cold, thin, barely held together with rusted welds and fraying fabric. JJ doesn’t really lie down on it—he just hovers near it, pacing the small stretch of space between it and the back wall like a caged animal. The sweat on his skin mingles with the dust in the air, making him feel grimy, heavier than he should be.

He used to be good at this. Cold under pressure. Quick and calculated.

His fists ache from clenching. His jaw has been tight for so long it’s starting to throb. Every breath tastes like bleach and stale sweat and fear. Tents flap in the stale wind. He scratches his fingers absently against the calluses on his palm, trying to ground himself. It doesn’t help.

And still, not a damn sign of you.

He’s seen too many people dragged out of processing already—some crying, some silent, one screaming so loud it sounds inhuman. The guards never flinch. They just shove them out through another gate. Everyone knows what that means. That’s where the infected wander. Where no one comes back from.

His foot taps the ground in a relentless rhythm. He tries to convince himself you’re fine. That you'll be walking in any second, complaining about the guards or demanding food or cursing the government.

But the longer the silence stretches, the more that hope slips through his fingers.

“JJ?”

He turns sharply, heartbeat jerking like it misses a step.

John B stands at the entrance of the tent, framed by harsh daylight. His face pale and thin, like someone has carved the boy he knew down to the bone. But it’s him. Alive. Breathing. Behind him is Pope, clutching a clipboard so tight it looks like his fingers might snap.

JJ doesn’t say anything. He just moves. Fast.

He reaches them in three strides and crashes into John B like the ground has vanished beneath him. They lock arms tight, clumsy and desperate. JJ lets his chin rest against his shoulder for just a second before pulling back like nothing happened.

“You made it,” Pope says, voice thick and rough like it hasn’t been used in hours.

JJ steps back, blinking hard, eyes flicking between them. “I made it?” he snaps. “Where the hell were you?”

John B runs a hand through his tangled hair. “They split us up at the gate. Didn’t even know Pope was in this zone until I saw him this morning.”

JJ’s gaze shoots over their shoulders. “And where’s—?”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. His body already knows you’re not with them.

John B’s face darkens slightly. “They said you passed the blood test. You’re being moved into the main zone.”

“And her?” JJ asks, voice lower now. Harsher. “She behind me?”

Pope shifts awkwardly, glancing toward the guards stationed outside. “Could be. They were doing different groups in shifts.”

JJ doesn’t respond. He doesn’t blink. He just stares at the tent flap like if he focuses hard enough, it will part and reveal you standing there.

Then—more movement.

The flap rustles again, and someone steps through, but it isn’t you.

“Holy shit,” Pope breathes. “Kiara?”

She looks tired, her clothes rumpled. Her left arm is pinned in a makeshift sling, and there’s a streak of dirt down one side of her face. But her eyes are sharp and alert. Locked on them.

JJ freezes for half a second before stepping forward, grabbing her in a quick hug that surprises even him. She leans in, squeezing him back, her good arm wrapping around his shoulders.

“Where were you?” he asks, pulling back to look her in the face.

“I came in with my family,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “We got separated during the first checkpoint, but they let us through. They took us into another sector. I only found out you guys were here a couple of hours ago.”

“Did you see Y/N?” JJ asks again. This time his voice cracks just slightly at the end.

Kiara shakes her head. “No, I haven’t seen her.”

JJ barely hears the rest of whatever she says.

And now, standing here in the choking air of the QZ tent, heart pounding so hard it makes his ribs hurt, he catches it, just a flicker of a voice from the other side of the canvas wall. Two guards talking in that too-casual, too-tired way people speak when they’ve stopped caring.

“Girl in blue? Flinched during blood draw.”

“She panic?”

“Full freak out. Wouldn’t calm down.”

“They send her out?”

“East gate.”

JJ goes still.

The world tilts beneath him, as if the ground itself is giving way.

Blue hoodie.

You have his blue hoodie on.

The cold that floods his chest is instant and paralyzing, like drowning in ice water. His hands clench before his brain can catch up.

You panicked. You don’t do well with blood, with being alone. He knows that.

He sees it all—your face twisted in fear, guards grabbing your arms, dragging you down the same path that man took earlier. The East Gate. No second chances. No warnings. Just protocol.

“Fuck!” JJ shouts, voice raw.

The entire tent jolts. John B reaches for him.

“JJ, don’t—”

But JJ is already moving, barreling toward the flap. A soldier steps in his way, rifle half-raised.

“Back off!” the man barks.

“JJ, stop,” John B yells, grabbing his arm. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

JJ’s breathing is ragged, wild, shoulders hunched like a dog backed into a corner. His entire body buzzes with adrenaline, too much grief, too much dread. His pulse thunders in his throat, his vision threatening to tunnel.

And just as the sun hits its highest point, there’s a new movement at the tent.

Boots.

A familiar voice arguing with a guard. JJ’s head snaps up like he’s been electrocuted.

You step inside, face dirty, a scratch on your cheek, but alive.

He crosses the tent in three long strides and collides into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. His arms slam around your waist and lock there, unyielding. He clutches you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go for even a second. His face drops into the crook of your neck, breath hitting skin in ragged bursts.

“You’re late,” he mumbles, voice breaking on the second word.

You wrap your arms around him just as tightly. “Got held up. You know how it is.”

You blink up at him. There’s a tremble in your lip.

“I thought they were gonna shoot me.”

He doesn’t say anything, not out loud. But something shudders through him.

Because so did he.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hands trembling now too. And then he pulls you back into him like he could press your chest to his, heart to heart, like maybe if he holds you close enough he can feel yours beating and believe it’s real.

They don’t take long to process you once you're cleared, moving quickly. One of the soldiers gestures for you to follow, giving no room for hesitation, no time to second guess. JJ's steps are tight with contained anger, but he keeps quiet, leaning into your presence like a tether to sanity. The others follow behind, still on edge, but trying to stay calm in the face of what’s about to come.

The QZ feels like a ghost town in the middle of a warzone.

The transition from the tent compound into the main section of the quarantine zone is jarring. The first thing that hits you is the smell. Everything smells faintly of chemicals, of cleaning, of too many bodies crammed into too little space for too long. The atmosphere here is oppressive, like the air itself has grown thick with fear. Every step you take feels heavier, the ground beneath you a reminder of how close the world has come to falling apart.

The buildings are small, makeshift things. There’s a high fence, a double-layered security perimeter reinforced with guards patrolling every other corner.

“Welcome to the safe zone,” the soldier mutters, the sarcasm in his voice too sharp to miss.

You glance around, feeling the weight of everything pressing in on you. Everything looks… bleak. The people walking around seem hollow. They move in the same way—tired, resigned, shuffling from one task to the next. Some glance at you as you pass, their eyes flicking away quickly, like they're afraid to make any kind of eye contact. Others are too busy with their own misery to care about the new arrivals. The place feels more like a containment zone than a home.

Your eyes dart from face to face, hoping for a glimpse of some kind of familiarity. The others are behind you, but it's hard to spot anyone in this mess of bodies. Everyone seems to be blending into the concrete and steel of the zone.

The soldier leads you further into the QZ, past checkpoints, overgrown gardens where the wild tang of mold and decay mixes with the remnants of once-tidy parks. Now, they’re barely maintained, full of weeds and stray scraps of plastic and broken concrete. Every corner feels like it’s been abandoned by hope.

Finally, you reach a section that looks slightly different, more organized, more like a camp meant for people who’ve been living here for a while. You see a few tents lined up, with families gathered around small fires. A few makeshift stalls are set up in the corners where people trade what little they have: cans of food, medical supplies, sometimes even old clothes or weapons.

“You’ll be placed here for now, temporary quarters. No fighting, no wandering, no complaints. You wait here until relocation,” the soldier says, motioning to a row of cots in a dimly lit tent. He doesn’t even give you the chance to settle in before he’s walking away, leaving you in the middle of the chaos.

As soon as he’s gone, you let out a breath, your legs weak from the tension of the last few hours. JJ leans against a post, eyeing the area, keeping his guard up.

"Well," he says, turning to you, "this is... something."

You feel a bitter laugh bubble up in your throat but can’t bring yourself to let it out. "Yeah. Home sweet home."

— 

The hours stretch. Time doesn't pass here—it drips.

Eventually, the five of you gather near the center of the tent, hunched in a loose circle around a salvaged heating coil someone managed to barter for. It glows weak orange, barely warm, but it’s something. You sit close together, knees brushing, eyes tired, backs curved like the weight of everything is finally sinking in.

No one speaks at first.

Pope chews on the cap of a pen, notebook open in his lap but blank. John B picks at a loose thread on his sleeve like he’s unraveling more than fabric. JJ watches the entrance. Always watching. He doesn’t trust this place. Not the fences, not the soldiers, everything feels like a trap with better branding. Like a cage they put flowers on.

Kiara sits cross-legged with her sling resting across her lap. She’s the one who breaks the silence.

“I should head back soon,” she says, voice low. “My family’s in sector six. They’ve probably already noticed I slipped out. Thought you were dead.”

 “You too,” Pope mutters. “It’s been a day.”

Kiara manages a tired smile. “I’ll try to come back tomorrow if I can. But I need to check in with them. My mom’s probably freaking out.”

You reach over, rest a hand on her knee. “I’m glad you all made it in.”

“Me too.”

JJ glances at her. “Let us know if anything changes. If they move you.”

Kiara nods. “I will.”

She gets to her feet carefully, adjusting her sling. Then she crouches down and pulls you into a one-armed hug. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she mumbles.

“No promises,” you say.

She squeezes Pope’s arm on the way out, then locks eyes with John B. “Take care of them.”

He just nods, jaw tight.

And with that she’s gone.

The tent feels different without her, like it just lost one of its walls.

You and the boys sit in silence for a while after. Listening to the low hum of voices outside, the shuffle of boots, the tired murmur of this strange, broken camp.

JJ shifts closer, his thigh brushing yours. He doesn’t say anything. Just stays there.

Eventually, Pope lies down on his cot, notebook on his chest. John B stretches out beside the heater, hoodie pulled over his eyes.

You don’t move yet. You just sit, letting the weight of the night settle in. Letting JJ’s presence beside you be enough, for now.

Later that night, it’s just the two of you still awake.

The others are out cold—John B half-snoring in the corner, Pope curled around his notebook like it might protect him. The tent is quiet except for the hum of a floodlight outside and the distant, unplaceable sound of someone yelling. Or maybe it’s laughing. You can’t tell anymore.

JJ sits beside you on the cot, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest. His head leans back against the tent wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You glance at him. “You ever gonna sleep?”

He shrugs. “Not really my style.”

You nudge his foot. “Not sleeping isn’t a personality trait.”

“Tell that to insomnia. She’s my girl now.”

You snort under your breath. “Figures. You always go for the toxic ones.”

JJ finally turns his head, slow and tired and fond. “And yet,” he says, “you’re still here.”

You pretend to be offended. “I didn’t follow you.”

“Oh, okay. So you just happened to run into me with a knife and a death wish while the world was ending?”

“I had a plan,” you lie.

“Yeah?” he glances at you. “Did that plan involve stabbing a guy in the neck with a kitchen knife?”

You pause. “It involved surviving. Stabbing was a bonus.”

JJ chuckles, but it dies too fast. He looks down at his hands. They’re scraped. Still dirty.

He goes quiet for a beat.

You want to say something comforting, but everything in you is tired and scraped raw. So you just lean over, rest your shoulder against his.

“You’re going to stuck with me like it or not” you murmur.

JJ tilts his head until it rests lightly against yours.

“You better be,” he says. “I’m not stable enough to be your tragic backstory.”

You huff out a laugh. “Please. You already are.”

JJ lets out a breath. “Touché.”

A long silence stretches. Not bad. Just… full.

“Hey,” he says eventually. “If I have anxiety spiral at three a.m., you gonna be up for it?”

“Sure. As long as you promise to return the favor when I inevitably lose it over canned ravioli or something.”

JJ bumps his shoulder into yours. “Deal.”

[darkparablesfan]

You cannot, CANNOT TELL ME it wasn't Yuu sitting where Grim is, you won't lie to me Disney, i know what you're trying to do here.

He'd be a helpless romantic like that, gazing lovingly at Yuu to the song kiss the girl, hoping to do the lyrics just 🥹

[darkparablesfan]

Before the tide turns

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: typical outerbanks things, alcohol, some drugs, bad fathers, nothing really deep in this one. maybe my crusty writing. english is not my first language!

a/n: Hello there dear reader! So this will be a zombie apocalypse series, but before the sky falls and 💩 hits the fan and everything goes to hell, let’s take a second to appreciate the life about to slip away.

word count: 6.7k

Any feedback is really appreciated! ♥

The Outer Banks were never supposed to be home.

You arrived there on a late spring day, with two suitcases and some box of books, your mom’s tired smile, and the hollow echo of a past you hadn’t looked back on in years. She got a nursing job at the local hospital, and you got whatever this was, sunset-drenched streets, salt-kissed air. It didn’t feel like a new beginning. It felt like a pause between endings.

Your dad left when you and your mom when you were just a kid. No note. No goodbye. Just the empty space in your life where his voice used to be. Your mom never cried in front of you. She just worked, and hoped one of the shifts would stitch the wound in your chest back together. You weren’t supposed to stay.

It was supposed to be your last free time before college, something stable and prestigious and far away, the kind of life your mom had clawed her way toward for you. She’d worked every night shift, picked up extra hours, filled out scholarship forms while you slept. She’d planned this.

You were supposed to be planning too. Packing your days with summer reading lists and admissions checklists. Your plan was to help your mom settle in and work during your gap year. Read ahead for university. Then go back to real life. To ambition.

That planning lasted about two weeks.

You found work at The Wreck, the local bar just outside of The Cut—part watering hole, part sanctuary for sunburnt fishermen and troublemakers. The place smelled like stale beer. The locals knew to tip in cash and stories.

It started with Kiara. She came into The Wreck during your first shift—sweaty from the sun, still in her wetsuit, dripping water onto the floor.

“You new?” she asked, hopping up on a barstool and squinting at your name tag.

You nodded. “You’re...very wet.”

“Thanks,” she deadpanned. “Well, yeah. I figured I’d go for the drowned rat look tonight. Really works for the vibe, don’t you think?”

You liked her immediately. After your first shift ended she looked at you “Okay,” she said. “Serious question. What’s your escape plan?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got that ‘I’m just passing through’ vibe,” Kiara said. “So. What’s the plan? College? Bigger city? Secret identity?”

You smiled faintly. “Something like that. My mom got the hospital job here. She wants me starting school the next fall.”

“You want that?”

You paused. “I want her to stop worrying.”

She looked at you for a beat, like she was sizing you up. Then she nodded, arms crossed. “That’s fair.”

The next night, she came back with new people to introduce you to. Pope, John B and Sarah. They ordered fried shrimp, bickered over who owed who gas money this time, and invited you to a bonfire “just to break up the cosmic boredom of existence.”

Then the third night on the job, you met him. JJ Maybank.

He burst through the door like a hurricane in human form with his warm blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a grin so crooked it could knock the breath out of you. Loud, and already talking before he even reached the bar.

“New girl,” he said, like it was a nickname. “Fun fact,” he announced, eyes locked on the rum bottle in your hand. “That’s the same kind Blackbeard drank the night before he buried treasure right off this coast.”

You arched a skeptical brow. “Seriously?”

“Okay,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Maybe not. But c’mon, you don’t move to the Outer Banks and not believe in pirate ghosts and buried treasure. It’s basically a local requirement.”

You fought the grin tugging at your lips. “You’re full of it.”

“Full of charm,” he corrected, tapping the counter with two fingers. “And definitely not full of pirate rum. Yet.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “I don’t think I caught your name.” You hesitated for a second, suddenly self-aware, but something about his easy confidence made it feel okay to say it.

“It’s Y/N,” you said, the words feeling a little too small under the weight of his gaze.

He smiled, the grin wide and unrestrained. “I’m JJ.”

—

The first time you sat with all of them outside of work, it wasn’t planned.

You’d just finished your shift at The Wreck when Kie and Sarah waved you over. JJ was already there with his feet up on the table, next to his food, shirt sun-damp and sticking to his back. John B was mid-rant about something to do with boat engines, and Pope was counting coins from the tip jar like it was serious math.

“Sit,” Kie grinned. “We’re initiating you.”

“Into what, exactly?” you asked, arching a brow. JJ leaned back in his chair, looking way too pleased with himself. “The glorious cult of bad decisions and questionable morals.”

“Also known as the Pogues,” Pope clarified.

JJ tossed a fry at him. “You make it sound lame. Watch for the branding dude.”

Sarah looked at you. “If you can handle a Friday night in The Cut, you officially earn local status.”

And just like that, you stayed.

JJ leaned back, balancing precariously on the edge of the picnic table like a raccoon contemplating its life choices. “So new girl… Kiara told me that you have a board. You surf or just own that for the aesthetic?”

“I surf,” you said confidently. “In the same way a cat swims. Reluctantly. With a lot of splashing and some crying.”

He snorted. “So, you’ve nearly drowned in front of hot people. Relatable.”

“Honestly, it builds character. It’s very performance art.”

He pointed a fry at you like it was a mic. “The ocean’s never seen such raw talent.”

“It cried salty tears,” you said. “We bonded.”

He cackled. “Stick with me, new one. I’ll show you how to look cool while making terrible life decisions.”

You raised your cup in a toast. “Can’t wait to disappoint my mom with style.” JJ clinked his beer can against yours. “That’s the spirit.”

Kiara laughed behind you. “She’s one night in and already talking like JJ. This is how it starts.”

“How what starts?” you asked, raising a brow.

Pope looked up from his coin mountain. “Corruption. First it’s sarcasm. Next thing you know, you're trespassing on a golf course at 2 a.m. wearing a traffic cone as a hat.”

Then John B pointed at you. “And you will think it’s a good idea at the time.”

JJ grinned, full of charm. “In my defense, the traffic cone was very flattering.”

“Only because you wore it with no pants,” Pope muttered.

“Art demands sacrifice” JJ said solemnly.

You blinked. “Is this a group of friends or an elaborate cry for help?”

“Yes,” they all answered at once.

You couldn’t help but laugh. JJ leaned in just a little, elbows on knees, gaze too steady for how unserious he looked. “You laugh now, but wait until we make you break into an abandoned lighthouse or something.”

“Oh good,” you said dryly. “I've always wanted tetanus and a criminal record.”

Kie nudged you with her shoulder. “You’ll fit right in.”

JJ pointed at you again. “I like her. She’s got the right ratio.”

“You have a ratio?” you asked.

“Scientific method, babe. You gotta be just scared enough to know it’s dumb, but dumb enough to do it anyway.”

You tilted your head. “And how do you rate?”

He grinned, wide and reckless. “Overqualified.”

“You live at dangerously overqualified.” John B added.

JJ leaned back again, arms spread out along the bench like he was claiming the whole night. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. These people were chaos. Loud, messy, sunburnt chaos.

Kie handed you the last fry. “You're one of us now. No take-backs.”

You took it, crunching it between your teeth like a solemn oath. “Guess I better start practicing my mug shot face.”

JJ waggled his brows. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a whole portfolio.”

“Of mug shots?” you asked, choking on laughter.

“Of facial expressions. The mug shots are just… bonus content.”

You had the next weekend off. You planned a chill, relaxing Saturday, but when that morning JJ showed up outside your place leaning out the window of the Twinkie—John B’s car—, yelling like a lunatic. “SURF’S UP, BABY!”

You blinked at him, bleary-eyed, clutching your coffee like it was life support. “JJ, it’s 7 a.m.”

“Exactly. Prime wave real estate. Let’s go, Sharkbait.”

After getting ready, you climbed into the van, your board knocking into everything in its path, you found Kiara already in the backseat, stuffing snacks into her bag. Pope sat up front with headphones in, clearly regretting his life choices, and John B was behind the wheel, sunglasses on and hair still damp from a lazy hose down.

The beach was still misty when you pulled up, sunlight breaking through in lazy streaks. JJ jumped out first, hauling his board over his shoulder like he was starring in his own indie surf documentary.

You dragged your board to the sand, staring at the waves like they were out to get you.

“Alright, rookie,” JJ said, spinning his board in the sand with dramatic flair. “Time to see if that board’s just for Instagram.”

John B snorted. “Don’t let him get to you.”

You paddled out with them, nervous, already soaked to your ears. Pope wiped out first, his limbs flailing so violently he looked like he was trying to fly. John B caught a decent wave and immediately shouted, “Did you SEE that?” like he’d just solved world peace. Kiara, naturally, made it look effortless.

Then it was your turn. JJ floated nearby, watching like a lifeguard with a flair for mockery. “Okay, new girl. This is your moment. Make Poseidon proud.”

You paddled. You stood. You flailed. You crashed.

When you surfaced, JJ was cracking up. “Majestic. Ten out of ten. Graceful as a flying possum.”

You flipped him off, laughing, salt water pouring out of your nose. “You’re lucky I don’t launch this board at your smug face.”

But the second time? You stood longer. Rode it almost all the way in. When you fell, you were smiling.

Later, the five of you collapsed on towels and boards, sun drunk and dripping wet, munching chips, JJ tossed you a sweatshirt that smelled like him and sunscreen.

“You’re not bad,” he admitted, nudging your foot with his.

“Careful,” you warned, pulling the hoodie tighter. “That almost sounded like praise.”

He grinned, eyes squinting in the sun. “You’re officially one of us now.”

And as the wind ruffled the beach, you realized something: You’d never belonged anywhere like this before.

The next night you spent with them, they built a bonfire like it was a ritual—driftwood, lighter fluid, and Pope’s very strict “no glass near the fire” rule that everyone immediately ignored.

John B found a busted speaker in the Chateau and hooked it up to his phone with duct tape and a prayer. The sound was terrible, but it didn’t matter.

JJ handed you a drink without asking what you wanted. “I made it for you,” he said proudly. “It’s called the Sunset Surprise.”

You sniffed it. “JJ, this is just rum and SunnyD.”

“Yeah. The surprise is how good it is.”

Later, after some too much of that drink, you ended up tangled in a hammock with Kie and Sarah, passing a bag of marshmallows between you while JJ and John B tried to one-up each other on who had the worst sunburn.

“Remember when you said you weren’t staying?” Kie whispered to you, grinning.

“I’m still not.” you said.

You’d never actually been inside the Chateau before, just heard the legends. Mismatched furniture, questionable wiring, and a general aura of lived in disaster. So when JJ waved you in that evening like you’d been coming over for years, you stepped through the door and into the eye of the hurricane.

Somehow, one visit turned into a dozen. Before you even noticed, the Chateau became your second home, blaring music, sandy floors, and all.

The first night you crashed there, you fell asleep on the lumpy couch with a scratchy blanket and JJ snoring on the other side of the room. You woke up to the unmistakable smell of something burning. And your skull pulsing like a tiny, furious drummer had moved in behind your eyes.

The couch beneath you creaked as you shifted, your cheek peeling off the sticky cushion fabric. Someone had draped a beach towel over you like a blanket. Your mouth tasted like JJ’s surprise drink and regret.

Groaning, you sat up, and immediately regretted it.

Your surroundings came into focus slowly: Pope curled up on the floor using a backpack as a pillow, Kie sprawled upside down in the battered armchair, and John B, shirtless, lying half off his hammock like he’d lost a battle with gravity sometime in the night.

The Chateau was chaos and comfort all at once, half sunk in sand and too bright for your aching eyes.

JJ walked in from the kitchen, flipping something on the stove, grinning when he caught you squinting at him like the morning lightness had declared war on your eyeballs.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, barefoot and smug. “Sleeping Beauty lives.”

You glared. “Why are you yelling?”

He snorted and walked over, pressing a bottle of water into your hands, then some painkillers into your palm like he’d done it a dozen times before.

“My gut instincts told me to keep you alive,” he said, crouching in front of you. “Also, you puked off the back porch and yelled at a mailbox.”

Your groan turned into a muffled scream behind the towel. “Please stop.” Your face burned hotter than the morning sun. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Lies,” Pope muttered from the floor.

JJ reached out, brushing a piece of sand-dusted hair from your forehead with extreme gentleness. “You good?”

The joke fell from his face then, just for a second. His blue eyes searched yours like he wasn’t asking about the hangover at all. Like he was asking if you felt okay here—with them. With him.

You nodded, throat thick. “Yeah. Weirdly good.”

“You can crash here whenever,” he said, standing and tossing you a granola bar. “Just… maybe aim away from the porch next time.”

You threw the granola bar at his head. He ducked and laughed, already turning back toward the stove, like this was just normal now—you waking up here, part of the mess.

Part of them.

After that, you liked to spend almost all of your free time at that house. One of your day off you were next to JJ who was sitting on the porch railing with a damp t-shirt slung over his shoulder, a laundry basket at his feet and his hair still wet from a surf. You were sitting on the steps, sorting socks with a kind of focused frustration that made him smirk every time you muttered about losing pairs to the “sock void.”

“You know,” JJ said, nudging your foot with his. “You don’t have to color code them.”

“It’s not color-coding,” you muttered. “It’s... sock logic.”

He snorted. “You sound like Pope.”

“Hey!”

He leaned down, plucked a sock from the pile, and tossed it behind him like a basketball. “Boom. Freedom.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“You’re in denial.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees, throwing shadows across the porch. Somewhere inside, John B was yelling at the TV about a busted DVD player, and Kiara was digging through the fridge for snacks she swore she didn’t bring.

JJ glanced down at you, softer now.

“You didn’t have to come by, you know.”

You shrugged. “You texted me you were doing laundry. I assumed you needed supervision.”

“Fair.”

A beat passed. The kind of quiet that was only awkward if you didn’t want it to mean something.

He looked at you again. Really looked. “You always do that.”

You glanced up. “Do what?”

“Show up.���

The words settled between you like something heavier than air. You didn’t answer right away just looked at him, really looked back. At the bruise fading along his ribs. At the way his hands never stayed still. At the hope that flickered behind all the sarcasm when he looked your way.

“I like being here,” you said finally.

He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded. Then, quieter: “Yeah. Me too.”

He sat beside you, knees bumping, arms brushing — both of you pretending it didn’t matter. Both of you wishing the moment would stretch just a little longer.

That same night was technically a “movie night,” but John B had passed out on the couch, Pope never showed, and JJ had offered you the spare mattress in the back like it wasn’t a big deal. The storm had rolled in just after sunset.

You were half asleep when you heard the shouting.

Not JJ.

His dad. You knew damn well he was abusive. Kiara told you about him when you two walked together home after work. You’d seen JJ’s  bruises. The ones on his ribs, the ones on his back. The ones he tried to cover up, the ones he didn’t talk about. You knew what his dad was capable of. The way the older man’s anger could tear JJ down, piece by piece. You sat up fast. The mattress was thin and cold, your phone lighting up with a single message: “Stay in the room. Please.”

You didn’t.

By the time you made it down the hall, JJ was in the kitchen, blocking the door with his body. His dad stood outside, soaked from the rain, reeking of whiskey and rage.

“Don’t be a little bitch, JJ,” he slurred. “Let me the hell in—”

“You’re not doing this again.” JJ snapped, voice low but tight, like he was holding everything together by one breath. “You think you’re some tough guy now?” his dad named Luke, if you are remember correctly, snarled, leaning harder against the door. “Living in your little clubhouse like a man? You’re still just some screw-up kid who needs his—”

“Go home,” JJ said, and it wasn’t loud, but it cut. You saw his hands shaking.

The door slammed shut a second later, just narrowly missing JJ’s fingers. He stood there, chest heaving, head bowed like it physically hurt to stay upright.

“JJ...” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you. Just braced his hands on the kitchen counter, knuckles white.

You reached out gently, fingers brushing his arm. “Can I—?”

He nodded once.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. Slowly. Carefully. His back was warm, tense as steel cable, but when you pressed your cheek to his shoulder, you felt him exhale. His head dropped forward, curls wet from rain or sweat or maybe both.

“I hate him,” JJ whispered. “I hate that I still care what he says. I hate that I can’t stop him from getting in my head.”

You didn’t speak. Just held tighter.

“Hey,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to make him face you. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away “Whatever he is, you’re the opposite.” JJ’s eyes searched yours, as if he wanted to believe it but didn’t know how. You reached up and touched his face—fingertips soft at his jaw. “He doesn’t get to define you. Not now. Not ever.” JJ leaned into you like he was starved for warmth.

On a sweltering July afternoon, the heat clung to your skin, hot sand burning beneath your toes, the sky above a washed-out blue with the promise of stars to come. The Pogues had built a bonfire near the dunes—Kiara brought a Bluetooth speaker, John B smuggled snacks, Pope came late, and JJ was already tipsy when you arrived. You found him sitting on a log, poking the fire with a stick like it owed him money.

“Late,” he said without looking at you.

You smirked. “You missed me.”

He glanced up. “Always.”

You settled beside him. The fire crackled. The ocean whispered behind you. For a moment, it felt like the whole island had stopped spinning.

And then, voices. Loud, slurred, Kook voices.

You turned.

Rafe Cameron, in all his smug, sunburned glory, was striding toward the fire like he owned the shoreline. Two of his cronies followed behind him grinning, emboldened. He wasn’t drunk. He was worse. He was in one of those moods. You’d seen this dance before. Kooks with their collars popped and pockets lined, swaggering into places like they were doing everyone a favor. And Pogues? Tended bars, cleaned up their messes, swallowed insults with clenched jaws because rent didn’t pay itself.

At The Wreck, it was always the same story: Kooks sitting too close, speaking too loud, tipping too little. Entitled. The kind of people who looked at you like you were wallpaper just there to blend into the background unless they needed something.

“Well, well,” Rafe said, raising a beer. “Look who’s slumming it with the pogues tonight.”

You stood, not even sure why. Maybe just on instinct. JJ stood too. You felt the heat of him at your back.

Rafe’s eyes slid to you, then back to JJ.

“She your latest stray, Maybank?”

JJ didn’t flinch. “You lost?”

“Just enjoying the public beach.” Rafe said, smiling like a shark.

Kie was beside you, arms crossed tight. “Rafe, no one wants you here.”

“Relax,” he said, but his eyes were still on you. “She doesn’t look like she minds. You from out of town, sweetheart? Didn’t think they let tourists run with the trash.”

You didn’t even have time to blink before JJ moved.

It wasn’t a swing—not yet. Just a step forward. Fast and controlled. His jaw was clenched, fists at his sides, not raised but the intent was there.

“Back off.” JJ said, voice low.

Rafe laughed, but it wasn’t amused. “Didn’t know you got a guard dog.”

“Keep talking,” JJ said, “see how fast I make you eat sand.”

For a second, no one moved. The fire popped.

Then Pope was there, wedging himself between them. “Walk away, JJ.”

“Not until he does,” JJ hissed.

Rafe raised both hands in mock surrender and started to backpedal “Have fun, scumbags.”

When he was gone, JJ finally exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the second Rafe showed up. He didn’t look at you right away.

“Jay...” you started.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just stepped a little closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off of him part firelight, part JJ.

He noticed. But he didn’t move away.

—

There was a kind of rhythm to it, the way you danced around each other without ever touching the center. Like magnets flipping polar at the last second, always close enough to feel the pull, never close enough to give in.

Sarah caught on first.

She cornered you at the surf shop while you were stocking shelves. “So, you and JJ…”

“There’s no me and JJ,” you said too quickly.

Sarah raised a perfectly shaped brow. “That’s cute. He talks about you like you hung the stars or something. Like, annoying, but cute.”

Kiara joined in later, handing you a beer and casually asking, “So when are you going to admit you’re in love with him?”

You choked. “I’m not—he hasn’t—nothing’s happening.”

She just smirked. “Yeah, yeah okay.”

JJ was always there. Leaning on the bar when your shift ended, talking too loud, laughing too easily. He stole fries from your plate and let you steal sips from his beer. He called you “trouble” with a smirk like he was begging for you to prove him right.

And you were just as bad.

You found reasons to text him at 2 a.m., knowing he’d answer. Laughed a little louder at his dumbest jokes. Let your knees bump his on the couch and never moved away. You wore his hoodie home once and claimed it was accidental. He never asked for it back.

Your mom washed it, folded it neatly, and said nothing. Just gave you a look. The kind that said: I know exactly what this is, and we are not talking about it right now.

She liked JJ. Not that she’d admit it first. But you saw the way her expression softened when he called her “ma’am,” or offered to carry groceries, or he said to her “You made your daughter this cool alone? That should be illegal.” He tried to be a perfect gentleman around her, straightened posture, yes ma’ams, even opened the car door once. He even complimented her pasta like it was five-star cuisine.

She liked him. But she didn’t trust that she liked him.

“He’s got manners,” she said once, setting a pot on the stove. “But so do cult leaders.”

Still, she’d slide him an extra helping at dinner without blinking. Pack leftovers “just in case your friend’s hungry.” She saw the good in him. Just didn’t want you rearranging your whole future around it.

Some nights, when the wind rattled your windows and the ocean howled in the distance, you lay awake wondering how close was too close. How long until one of you cracked.

You caught him looking sometimes. Not in that passing way guys look at girls. Not like a glance. Like he was memorizing you.

Like he was trying to figure out if this whatever this was, could be real.

And he caught you, too. Watching him light a joint, shirtless in the Chateau’s golden hour glow. Watching the way his jaw flexed when he was thinking too hard. Watching him watch you.

You talked about everything. The kind of stuff most people never dared to say out loud. Bad dads. Broken systems. How life sometimes felt like a house of cards, like one gust and it’d all go down.

But you never talked about the way your heart beat faster when his hand brushed yours. Or how he always pulled you in closer than necessary during movie nights. Or the way you always waited for him to say something first.

And then, one night, he finally did.

You’d been watching some old movie John B had lying around at the Chateau. Midway through a scene involving an axe, a fog machine, and the world’s worst scream queen, JJ shifted. Without warning, he dropped his head into your lap, exhaling sharply like gravity had just won. You paused, looking down, half-expecting him to make some smartass comment.

Instead, he blinked up at you, eyes glassy but honest in that way drunk people sometimes get like all their edges had gone soft.

“You know I like you a lot, right?”

The words hit like a pebble through a window. Quiet, sharp, and irreversible.

You froze, heart stalling mid-beat. “JJ… you’re drunk.”

He blinked again. “Yeah I am.  And I’m also getting fall in love with you.”

No smirk. No wink. Just soft certainty, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You didn’t know what to do with it, so you did what you could. You gently untangled yourself, stood up ignoring the way he pouted, and fetched a glass of water, and two painkillers. When you came back, he was still on the couch, now sprawled dramatically like a fallen prince.

“Drink this please,” you said, nudging the glass into his hand.

He obeyed, eyes not leaving yours.

Then you helped him up—he leaned heavier than he needed to, one arm slung lazily over your shoulder—and guided him to the bedroom, muttering sleepy nonsense the whole way. You pulled the covers up to his chest, smoothed his hair back, and before you could think too hard, kissed his forehead.

He was out cold two minutes later.

The next morning, you found him on the porch one hand shielding his eyes like the sun had personally wronged him. John B was beside him, sipping coffee and looking far too chipper for someone who lived off instant ramen.

“She probably thinks I was just wasted,” JJ muttered, voice rough, temple cradled in his palm. “I fucked up.”

He didn’t see you at first. You stood there in the doorway for a beat, watching him squint into the daylight like it held answers. The words had come out messy, sure. But the truth in them hadn’t felt drunk.

You didn’t hesitate after that. You stepped outside, the screen door creaking just enough to give you away. JJ flinched like he’d been caught doing something illegal. John B glanced between the two of you, instantly clocked the energy, and bless him, he quickly stood up.

“I’m gonna go… check on the water heater,” he mumbled, already backing away even though the Chateau hadn’t had hot water in weeks.

JJ didn’t look at you right away. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the effort. “So… about last night,” he said, voice rough like gravel. “Just for the record, I was absolutely trashed.”

“I noticed.”

He laughed once—short, nervous. “Cool. So we can just pretend I was talking to a tree or, like, a large bird and keep this friendship alive.”

You sat beside him on the step, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“Thing is,” you said, “you were drunk. But you weren’t lying.”

JJ finally turned to look at you, blue eyes bloodshot and uncertain. He looked like a boy halfway between wanting to run and wanting to believe he hadn’t ruined everything.

“And that’s the problem?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You shook your head slowly. “No. That’s the part that makes it easy.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait… are we still using metaphors or?”

You kissed him.

It was gentle, cautious like you were both trying to memorize something fragile. He froze for a split second, then kissed you back, sun-warm hands coming up to cradle your jaw like he couldn’t believe you were real.

When you finally pulled away, he looked dazed, but smiling.

“I knew you liked me,” he whispered.

“You said you are in love with me,” you reminded him.

JJ leaned back a little, grinning now, like gravity couldn’t touch him. “Yeah, well. I was also drunk. I’m sober now, and I still do. So… just putting that out there.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re doomed,” he said brightly. “You kissed me. That’s a lifetime contract.”

Later that afternoon, the rest of the Pogues trickled in like seagulls smelling fries. You and JJ were still on the porch, now tangled up on the hammock, his legs practically hanging off one side, your head on his shoulder, the laziest smiles on both your faces.

Kiara stepped out first, paused mid-step, and blinked. “Okay…what the hell is this?” she asked, already pulling out her phone like she was documenting a cryptid sighting.

You squinted at her through the hammock netting. “Do I at least look cute?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Kie muttered, snapping a photo. “Ugh, finally. I'm putting this on the Pogue group chat.”

JJ grinned, not even bothering to move. “This, my friend, is a rare sighting. Handle with care.” 

 “Since when?” Pope asked, squinting like he was trying to solve a crime scene.

JJ stretched, yawned dramatically. “Since always. You guys just have no observational skills.” John B emerged from the kitchen with a bag of chips and the look of someone extremely over it. “He confessed last night while slurring into her lap. It was kinda romantic tho.”

Pope looked at you with raised eyebrows. You responded to the question he never actually said. “I made peace with my fate.”

“You’re a brave one.” Pope said.

Kiara groaned, flopping onto the porch swing. “This is gonna be great.”

“You love it,” JJ said, throwing a chip at her. “You all do. Admit it.”

John B sighed. “Can we at least make a rule that if you two start making out, we get a five-minute warning to evacuate?”

“No promises,” JJ said, slinging an arm around you. “We’re spontaneous like that.” And then he pulled you into a warm hug, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “So… when do I get to see you again?”

You grinned, pretending to think. “Hmm, let me check my very full and important schedule...”

“Oh no,” he whispered dramatically. “Am I being penciled in?”

“Lucky for you,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him, “next Friday’s wide open.”

He lit up. “Next Friday it is.”

On your first “real” date JJ didn’t tell you where you were going. He just showed up in front of your and your mom’s place at golden hour, wearing that cocky grin that made your heart do gymnastics.

"Is that... cologne?" you asked, sniffing the air.

"It’s scented confidence," he said, revving the boat engine dramatically.

You blinked. "We’re going on a boat ride?"

“Hell yeah.” he confirmed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Very poetic. Very Nicholas Sparks.”

You hopped in, grinning. “Is this what romance looks like in The Cut?”

“Buckle up, baby. We’re about possibly violate some maritime law.”

The boat was old, and a little squeaky every time JJ shifted gears but it glided like freedom. The water sparkled as the sun dipped lower, turning the sky into melted orange sherbet.

“You pull this move with all your dates?” you asked, legs dangling over the side of the boat.

JJ glanced over with a grin. “Only the ones I actually want to impress.”

“Lucky me.”

“Extremely,” he said, kicking at the water with the heel of his boot. “Most girls freak out when I joke about being stranded at sea.”

You gave him a look.

He shrugged, way too relaxed. “Guess we’ll find out when the gas light comes on.”

“JJ.”

“Kidding.” He leaned closer, voice low. “Probably.”

Eventually, he anchored near a quiet inlet. The boat rocked gently beneath you as JJ pulled out a slightly crumpled brown bag. Inside? Two sandwiches, a bottle of coke, and a pack of twizzlers.

“It’s giving gourmet” you said.

“I forgot the forks for our gourmet feast,” he replied solemnly. “but I have a surprise.”

He reached into the boat’s cooler and pulled out a single sparkler, the kind you get on the Fourth of July.

“This was supposed to be for later,” he said, lighting it with a victorious flick of a lighter. “But I’m impatient.”

You watched the sparkler fizzle between you, lighting his face in bursts of starlight. He looked so soft and full of mischief.

“I think this counts as the weirdest first date I’ve ever been on,” you said.

“But like... in a good way?” he asked, leaning a little closer.

You smiled. “In the best way.”

And when he kissed you tasting like coke and sunshine and it felt less like a beginning and more like a promise you’d already been living.

—

Exactly one year later after he kissed you on that boat, you fumbled with your new home’s keys, the metal biting into your palm like it could sense your nerves. With a sigh, you dropped them onto the counter, letting the sound of their clink echo.

Your mom’s voice echoed in the back of your mind. She’d given you a deadline, keep planning your future, stick to your academic goals, and she’d be more than happy to help you and JJ out with the rent. But she didn’t exactly approve of your life choices. But your mom, in her own strict way, always tried to take care of you, even if it didn’t always feel that way.

Her disapproval had hung heavy in the air when you’d told her. But she’d softened when you promised you’d keep pursuing your university plan, her way of showing she still cared, still expected something from you. So, you did. You planned, you organized. You tried to keep your life from spiraling in the chaos.

The new place was nothing special, just a two bedroom above an old dive shop in Kill Devil Hills with creaky floors, sea stained windows, and ceilings the color of forgotten cigarettes. You and JJ had only moved in a few days ago, but it already smelled like him. Sand, sunscreen, weed, and whatever cheap body wash he swore by.

You lay sprawled out on the floor in the living room, your head tilted just enough to brush against JJ’s. The only furniture in the room was a secondhand couch you hadn’t bothered to unwrap yet and a floor lamp that leaned like it was half-drunk. Sunlight leaked through warped blinds, casting stripes across the wooden floor. Dust hung in the air like pollen.

You sneezed for the third time.

JJ snorted out a laugh. “You allergic to happiness or just our janky-ass apartment?”

You groaned and wiped your nose with your sleeve. “I told you I should’ve dusted yesterday.”

JJ rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “I got it. I’ll do it now.”

“No,” you said, grabbing his arm and dragging him back down beside you. “You need a break. You carried all of the boxes up those stairs.”

He made a dramatic groaning noise. “They weighed a million pounds. I broke a sweat.”

“Drama queen.”

He grinned. That lopsided, JJ special smug and inexplicably soft.

You linked your fingers through his. He didn’t hesitate. His hand was warm and always a little rough, like he’d been living three lives at once. He brushed your thumb with his. Then, out of nowhere, he said:

“I’m so happy.”

You blinked at him, surprised. JJ wasn’t shy, but he didn’t usually say things like that, not without a joke stitched to the end. This wasn’t one of those moments. His voice was clear, steady. Like he needed you to hear it.

“I am too,” you murmured, tightening your grip. “I didn’t think I could feel like this again.”

JJ didn’t answer at first. He was looking at you like he’d never seen you before. Like you were some rare artifact dug out of the sand, something he was scared to touch too hard in case it disappeared.

“What?” you asked, voice hushed.

He raised a hand to your cheek, fingertips featherlight. The pads of his fingers traced the shape of you, reverent. His touch wasn’t demanding, just curious.

Then he smiled. “I don’t get how I got this lucky.”

You kissed him. It was a very sweet quick and warm and close mouthed. Then you whispered, “I’m happier.”

His eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Liar.”

“Swear it.”

“No way. I’m like… glowing. I’m radiating happiness. You’re catching my happy.”

The afternoon sun dipped lower, washing the apartment in a warm orange haze. It hit JJ’s hair just right, turning it to gold. He looked like summer as a person.

“I’m still happier” you teased.

He rolled over until he was half on top of you, chest pressing into yours. “Then prove it.”

“How?”

“Let me hold you for like, ever.”

You grinned. “JJ…”

But you let him pull you in, let him stretch himself across you like a blanket, tucking his face into your neck. His weight grounded you. His arms were secure, gentle but insistent. He always held you like he was afraid the universe might snatch you away.

“You good?” you asked softly, hand stroking through his hair.

“I am now,” he mumbled. “Just… don’t move yet.”

You didn’t. Not even when your back started to ache or your nose twitched from dust.

The world outside didn’t feel real that night. Just you and JJ, your hearts beating in the same rhythm, in a home that smelled like freedom.

A home that wouldn't last forever.

But neither of you were thinking about that yet.

[darkparablesfan]

Dude is a stoic king in the morning but keeps secretly checking on you in the middle of the night to see if you're still there and hadn't run off, then you catch him in the act one time and he's just standing there not knowing how to explain himself please don't leave him

request from discord tysm

[darkparablesfan]

Imagine surviving a zombie apocalypse with JJ

Hey y’all! So I had a dream a few weeks ago after binging The Walking Dead and The Last of Us, and it inspired me to get back to writing after a long time! While I’m working on the actual fic (I would like to make it into a series), I’d like to share with you some headcanon teaser-imagine-type thing. 1.2k

Any feedback is really appreciated!! ♥

TW for typical zombie apocalypse violence, established relationship, mentioned extreme violence/death, hurt/comfort, Pogue fem!reader, English is not my first language!

🤍

• The day they announced it as a pandemic, JJ rushed home and waited for his dad to come home; he never did.

• When everything went to hell, JJ was already running on instinct. He heard the news, saw the panic, and didn’t even stop to think. He found you in your driveway, confused and holding your phone like it still mattered. He didn’t even say hello, just grabbed your wrist and said, “We need to go. Now.”

• His voice was shaking. JJ Maybank does not scare easy — so when he looked at you like the world was ending, you believed him.

• John B hotwired a truck. Pope showed up with a first aid kit and four cans of soup. Kie had a machete and murder in her eyes. Sarah was already screaming at rich people to get off their yachts. And just like that, the Pogues became your apocalypse family.

• You’ve all got roles. Pope’s the tactician. John B’s the scout. Kiara’s the fixer. Sarah’s the backup. JJ’s the shield. You? You’re the glue. You’re the reason they haven’t splintered. You remind them there’s still something worth fighting for. Even if it’s just each other.

• JJ's survival strategy? Vibes and violence. He’s got no long-term plan, no route on the map, just a baseball bat, a stolen switchblade, and the promise he made to you: “I’m not leaving without you.”

• You’re in charge of rations, because JJ is not to be trusted around the food, and he’s not too proud to admit it.

• He deadass wants to go live in the mountains until all this has passed, and you’re like ?? “I’m not starving to death, Jay, forget it.”

• You constantly have to remind him he’s not Bear Grylls.

• He names his weapons. It’s dumb, but you let him have it. The bat is "Lucille 2," and the knife is “Karma.” You once caught him talking to them like they were teammates. “Nice work today, Karma. You really showed that corpse who’s boss.”

• You once found an abandoned community center with an old projector. Pope rigged it to work off a car battery. You all watched The Goonies while eating expired popcorn. It was the first time you saw JJ cry. He blamed it on “zombie dust.” No one called him out.

• Every new safehouse, he carves a tiny mark into the wall. A tally of the days survived. He never talks about it. You only saw it once—his name, yours, and a little plus sign between them.

• He taught you how to throw knives using an old road sign as a target. You beat him once. JJ claimed the wind was emotionally targeting him. “That was sabotage. Atmospheric betrayal.”

• Kiara taught you how to use a crossbow. JJ said it was hot. John B agreed. Sarah threatened to throw both of them into a walker pit if they kept being annoying. They shut up. (But JJ kept sneaking glances.)

• You kept a Polaroid JJ found—two strangers, smiling in some sunny-before-time. You call them "the ghosts." It’s silly, but sometimes you imagine they made it somewhere safe. That you will too.

• If there’s a tree in your path, you bet JJ’s going to fucking climb it. Passing an abandoned playground? Before you can blink, he’s on the jungle gym like “Look at me!!”

• He will insist he’s “scouting.”

• And it’s the little things that keep you sane.

• You both use humor to cope with the world.

• He can joke about the end of the world all day, but when you’re laughing, you’re reminding him that there’s still some piece of it left.

• You joked once about who’d be the first to die in a horror movie. “Definitely me,” he said without hesitation. “I’d trip saving you and get eaten with zero regrets. Classic heroic dumbass move. Five stars.”

• You started calling yourselves Team Cockroach—because no matter what came at you, you were still standing. JJ said it made you sound invincible. “Sexy little apocalypse cockroach power couple.”

• He made up a game called “Guess That Gunfire!” where you both guess what kind of weapon is being fired in the distance. Winner gets a protein bar. Loser has to cuddle him during night watch. You always lose. Mysteriously.

• You keep a small, battered notebook filled with sketches of places you’ve passed and letters you’ll never send.

• When things are quiet, the Pogues talk about what they miss most. Kie misses her garden. Pope misses his dad’s pancakes. Sarah misses showers. John B misses his freedom. JJ says he misses peace. You know he means it. He means you’re the closest he’s come to finding it again.

• At night watch, JJ exercises to stay awake. Like, you wake up in the middle of the night because you think you heard a zombie groan, but it’s just JJ doing sit-ups next to you.

• He senses you stirring and starts muttering, “Hundred and six, hundred and seven, hundred and—” but let’s be real, he only did like twelve.

• And you’re like, “How? Why? You’ve only had a can of tuna to eat in two days, where do you even get the energy??”

• “Gotta stay in shape if I’m gonna keep saving your clumsy ass.”

• JJ is the king of petty, spite-fueled motivation. “I’m not dying before I get to punch Rafe one more time.” “I didn’t live through the end of the world to starve to death. Not happening.” “I got bit by a duck, babe. A duck. I’m surviving out of spite.”

• He is terrified of losing you. Every time you two are apart, JJ is borderline homicidal.

• “I need to know you’re breathing. That you’re right there.” If he loses sight of you for more than ten seconds, it’s search mode activated. No one’s allowed to joke about it.

• There’s a comfort in knowing he’ll always fight for you. When the others doubt, when they hesitate, JJ’s always the one who steps up first, his fists clenched in a promise he’ll do whatever it takes to keep both of you alive.

• When you get to shower for the first time in a while, you suggest you just shower together and make the best of what little water you have.

• Imagine cuddling for comfort and warmth.

• Or patching him up after another close call.

• You once told him he was your home. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you like it physically hurt to love someone that much. That night, he held you like the world was ending all over again.

• You forget what day it is. Once, after spotting wildflowers sprouting through asphalt, you decided it was your anniversary. You didn’t know the real date, but you both agreed it felt like love.

• You have to be the responsible one, the decisive one, but in return, JJ will be your rock, your protector, steadfast and strong. Not even the weight of the world ending can faze him when he has you to worry about.

• When he says “I got you,” it’s never just words. It’s a promise. It’s a prayer. It’s a desperate, messy vow he’s never going to break—even if it kills him.

• After almost losing you once, he confesses that without you, he doesn’t have a reason to keep going. He survives to protect you.

• Never whines that he’s hungry or tired because he knows you are too, so whenever you ask if he’s alright, the answer is always going to be that he’s “okay if you are.”

• You once asked him what he’s fighting so hard for. He didn’t even blink. “You.” Then added, with a grin, “…and, like, definitely revenge on the duck.”

[darkparablesfan]

Dude is a stoic king in the morning but keeps secretly checking on you in the middle of the night to see if you're still there and hadn't run off, then you catch him in the act one time and he's just standing there not knowing how to explain himself please don't leave him

request from discord tysm

[darkparablesfan]

oh kai the boy you are for always chasing but never reaching

requested by a friend on discord <3

[darkparablesfan]

I created a discord server for twst and everyone is invited to join if you like!!!

[darkparablesfan]

The Devil's Gift

Another fanfiction of mine- This one is for another fandom I'm into- Obey Me!

It is fair to say that Levi was a bit over-stimulated by the buzzing activity surrounding the Christmas market in the human world. His aquarium room would have been better than being around normies. Especially around human normies. Despite that, he couldn't say no to his boyfriend. At every convention and special event he wanted to attend, he was always there to support him and he felt awful that he never got the chance to go on the program that Ritsu wanted to go to. Surely one day among human beings couldn't cause any problems, could it?

While Leviathan was walking through the crowd, attempting to avoid any eye contact with anyone else, he was cursing himself in his mind until he saw two silhouettes that looked familiar to him. 

“ Beel? Risa?” 

The two of them turned toward Levi.

“ Ah! Levi-kun!” Risa happily greeted Leviathan with a bright smile. Beel just hummed and nodded with his usual emotionless expression. Also his mouth was full of a crepe hanging out of it. 

“ Really Beel, even here you cannot control your hunger?” Leviathan sighed with annoyance in his voice. His brother swallowed the bite he was chewing on.

“ Can’t help it. They are really tasty.” 

“ But they are super expensive! If Lucifer learns you spend so much money on food again-” 

“ Don’t worry! I came prepared! “ Risa turns around showing off a cute backpack that seems to burst at any moment. “ I made some food back at home so we don’t spend too much money on food." Levi thought sometimes Risa was more of a personal chef for Beel rather than his girlfriend. 

“ Don’t you think you spoil him too much Risa?” 

“ Says the one who is spoiled by my brother all the time. And rather enjoy it.” 

Levi’s face felt like going up in flames. 

“ Hey! It’s him who gets those things for me! I never asked for them!” 

“ Riiiight…” Risa’s “ I don’t think so” face just flustered the poor demon further.

“ Cut it out!” 

“ Sorry, sorry.” The girl chuckled a bit before turning toward her boyfriend. “ Hey Beel, how are you? Huh? Beel?” 

The two of them looked around to see that the tall demon wasn’t there anymore.

“ As much of a giant he is, he is surprisingly stealthy.” Levi said as he looked around for his brother. Until they saw him approaching them with a bit of terrifying speed. Beel suddenly stopped in front of Risa, holding something small in his hands (but to be honest, what doesn’t look small in his hands?). 

“ Risa! Look what I got! “ He seemed really excited based on the tone of his voice. Levi and Risa looked at it. The girl let out a happy gasp.

“ You found one! “ It was a small music box that had a special key, a medallion of a necklace.” Oh Beel…”

“ I remember you said as a kid you wanted a music box like this and when I noticed it I just knew I had to buy it.” 

Risa quickly wrapped her arms around her boyfriend’s neck who returned the hug with one arm and stood up this way lifting her up from the ground.

“ Thank you! I love you so much, Beel!” 

“I love you too honey.”

“ Ugh- Gonna be sick.” Levi obviously was never a big fan of PDA. Sadly fate had it differently for him. 

“ Leviiii!” A cheerful male voice standing out from the crowd’s many voices followed by quick steps made Leviathan freeze for a second. Suddenly from behind another body slammed against his, two long arms wrapping around him. “ Found you!” 

“ Hey Ritsu.” Beel greeted the other exchange student before he went back to munching some new desserts. 

“ Oh hey you two! On a date as well?” The young man asked

“ Of course! It was easy to get Beel to come to the human realm with all the food I mentioned.” 

“ Why I am not surprised?" Ritsu just rolled his eyes” Anyway- Me and Levi have to go now- Take care, you two!” 

“ Huh? What are you-"

But before poor Levi could say anything else he was dragged away from the market leaving the other two behind, disappearing into the crowd around them. 

After a few minutes of walking they finally stopped. Ritsu let go of his boyfriend’s hand.

“ Okay, this should be good.”

“ Wha-Where- Why did you drag me here huh?!” Leviathan was gasping for air for a few seconds before looking at Ritsu with a red face - from the cold air and also from the anger that was boiling in his blood. 

“ Sorry babe, I just knew I had to get you out of there.” His hands now were behind his back as he turned towards him. 

“ What are you hiding?” Levi leaned to the side to see what his boyfriend was holding. 

“ Ah-Ah-Ah! No peeking!” Ritsu stepped a bit away from him with a sly smile on his face.” Close your eyes.” 

“ Ritsu-”

“ Pretty please?”

“...Fine.” Levi shut his eyes, his body tensed up and waited. His stomach felt like it was being tied into a knot as he could sense Ritsu walking close to him.

“ Okay. You can open them now.”

Levi slowly opened one of his eyes but quickly opened the other in awe as he saw what Ritsu was holding. 

“ I-Is that- a Ruri-chan plushie?!” 

“ Yepp- I made myself!” 

Levi quickly grabbed it out of the other men’s hands and began to nuzzle his face into it.

“ This is amazing!” He suddenly stopped and looked at Ritsu with a sort of guilty look. " Why are you so nice to me? I’m just a yucky otaku…”

“ Uh- Because you are my boyfriend? The best ever boyfriend in all of the three realms?” 

Levi’s face started to get even more red and his eyes were teary.

“ Oh cut it-” 

“ Nope.” He let out a chuckle. “ Hey, gently push it like this and then-”

“ Levi-kun is the best! ” Suddenly the doll spoke with Ruri-chan's voice.

“ Wait, is that her voice? “He pushed the doll.

“ Thank you for being my number 1 fan Levi-kun!” 

He was about to explode right here and there. Ritsu just laughed at the scene however.

“ I met the voice actress and asked for a few favors.” 

"Please tell me you didn’t blackmail anyone this time.”

“ Pff- Me? Oh my sweet sea serpent, would I ever?” 

“ Yes.”

“ Okay fine, but I promise I didn’t do such a thing. THIS time.” 

Levi just sigh defeatedly while Ritsu chuckled again but then his expression changed into a more serious one, more like he felt awkward now. He took a deep breath before he began to speak again.

“ Levi. I have one more gift for you.”

“ Huh?”

Ritsu looked down in front of him, taking another breath and looked seriously into Levi’s eyes who yelped a bit at this. 

“ Levi…I know I can be a bit too much for your taste. And I'm sorry for that. But I just cannot help but be proud and shout to the world how amazing you are. I found your dedication and your passion so contagious. Seeing how you enjoy what you do...of being yourself. I envy you for it. I’m still not sure who I am. I was used to playing this facade for so long I don’t know if it was really me anymore. So when you agreed to be my boyfriend back then I felt like the luckiest man ever. And thank you for accepting me for who I am."

“ Ritsu…”

“ So. I know I can come across as pushy and fast but there are things, feelings I cannot control and I have to say them so-” And with that he went down on one knee in front of Levi, taking out a small box and opening it. Inside was a silver ring with a coral gemstone on it. “ I know you call me your Player 2 a lot of times so…Leviathan, will you be my Player 1 forever?” 

Levi was on the brink of falling unconscious. His head felt heavy, his vision got blurry and his heart raced in his ribcage.

“ Wha- What are you doing? This is not funny- This is some awful normie prank!” 

“ This is not a joke Levi!” Ritsu’s expression didn’t change that much but his determination was obvious. Levi still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. 

“ Why- Why are you like this-” Levi continued through his sobbing “ Why are you so nice? I’m just a good for nothing shut in. Why do you want ME of all people as your partner?” 

“ Because I feel safe around you. I don’t have to pretend around you. You like me for who I am. That’s all I ever asked for a partner. Someone who accepts me and I would accept them with everything they come with, the good and the bad. And also because…I love you Levi.”

Levi’s tears wouldn’t stop. They covered his red face more and more, irritating his skin even more. Ritsu stood up and cupped Levi’s face into his hands pulling him closer so their foreheads would touch. He didn’t say anything else, just let Levi process all that had happened. 

When he finally calmed down enough to speak Levi looked up into Ritsu’s eyes. Vast blue and deep like the ocean. Ritsu looked back into his eyes. For him, Levi's eyes were like the twilight sky. 

“ You…You read too much of those crappy romance mangas.”

“ Heh. But they seem to do the trick, don't they? “

Levi whined before looking away pouting.

“ Well, are you gonna put that ring on or do I have to?”

“ Wait- You mean?”

“ Y-Yeah…I love you too.”

Ritsu’s eyes also got teary from this. He wiped some of his own tears before putting the ring on Levi’s finger. 

“ Thank you Levi. Thank you so much. I love you.” 

“Okay okay, just stop it…” He leaned against his chest burying his face in his jacket. “... Stupid Player 2” 

“ Thank you my sweet sea serpent. Happy Devil Day.”

[darkparablesfan]

The Hawk and the Little Sparrow

Hello- So this is my first post here- so sorry if it's not that great looking. So here is a work of mine- With Hawks with my OC- Risa.

The lively city sounds of Musutafu snuck inside the restaurant’s walls giving much needed background noise for the slow night. There weren't that many customers that night so Risa had some time to prepare for tomorrow. She was listening to some music, humming and singing along as she chopped up vegetables then moved on to preparing the different meats. 

But it was cut short when the restaurant’s bell chimed loudly as the entrance door was opened and chimed again when it was closed. She quickly let go of the knife and ran to the counter.

“ Welcome -” But she couldn’t finish what she was saying as the sight in front of her shocked her. It felt like her heart had fallen into her stomach. 

There he was, number three Hero, Hawks at her door, looking a mess. His jacket was covered in dirt and mud ( at least she hoped it was just mud ). His gaze was almost empty. But he still tried to smile as he looked at the women standing in front of him. 

“ Hey there little-��

With a loud thud the young men collapsed onto the floor. His vision started getting dark, then he heard quick footsteps closing in and Risa calling out his name. 

A few hours later when he woke up he found himself among soft and puffy pillows and a blanket. He quickly pushed himself up which only led to him feeling a strong sting in his chest. When he looked down he saw he wasn’t in his costume anymore. He was wearing an oversized t-shirt that could easily be easily like a tent for him. In several places, his arms were covered with bandages and bandaids. He glanced toward the door as Risa walked in with a tray in her hands as soon as the door opened.

“ Ah, you are awake Keigo!” She smiled at the blond haired man. 

" Yeah, sorry about that." He tilted his head as his hand was placed behind it and scratched it. 

“ You can pay for the cleaning later.” 

“ Oh come on little sparrow.” Keigo whined. 

“ Oh come on, I was just joking!” 

“ I know, I know. Sorry!” 

Risa’s cheek puffed up a bit like a puffer would puff up. 

“ Well, now that you're up, I can tend the wounds on your face.” 

She grabbed the first aid kit box and sat down at the edge of the bed. She put some alcohol on a cotton swab and applied it to Keigo's wound, who jumped back with a loud hiss. 

“ That stinged baby bird!” 

“ Oh shush you! If you keep moving it will take longer. You can swear at me if that helps.” 

“ What? You really think I would cuss at a lady like- Ouch!” 

Within a few minutes, all of Keigo's wounds had been treated. He pouted like a small kid as Risa put away the box and came back with the tray. It was packed with different kinds of food. Almost all of them were his favorites. 

"Wow! You made all of these?”

“ You were sleeping for a while and I guessed you would be hungry.” 

“ You know me too well- It’s dangerous. What if some villain catches you and interrogates you about me?” 

“ I doubt they would care too much about what your favorite food is. And that you keep sleeping with that Endeavour plushie.” 

“ That was low Risa.” 

The young woman let out a laugh that filled the otherwise quiet room. Keigo let out a small snort under his breath then began to eat. Risa just watched him with a content smile on her face. Seeing people enjoying her cooking always made her happy and she felt proud of her work. When Keigo finished he leaned back and patted his stomach.

“ Ah, I feel like I'm gonna explode.” 

“ Hey, there are some crumbs on your face.” Risa leaned closer, gently wiped off the crumbs from his cheek. With her thumb she could feel the soft skin, but it was covered by a band-aid. Seeing him like this. It broke her heart. So many questions swirled in her mind. How did he get these wounds? Did the Commission send him on another secret mission? 

“ Your face will stay that way, little sparrow.” Keigo’s teasing voice shook her out of her thoughts. 

“ Don’t tell me what to do- You are not my dad!” 

“ Yeah, I could never be like him.” He lets out a laugh but just as soon he lets out a yawn “ Ah…I guess I’m still a bit sleepy.” 

“ Alright. Move over.” After she put the tray on a table the brown haired woman kicked off her shoes and took off her socks. She then climbed into the bed and lay next to the Pro Hero. 

Keigo teased her, "Don't you seem a bit too confident?" as he lay down next to her so they would be face to face. 

“ I had a long day as well. So shush.” 

He let out another chuckle. He smiled at her with a faint but genuine smile. 

“ You know you don’t have to do all this for me.” 

"Well, it just so happens that I like helping others. Especially if it’s a reckless Pro Hero who causes me a faint heart attack almost every time I see him.” 

It was true, it wasn’t Keigo's first time fainting in the restaurant but Risa still couldn’t get used to seeing her childhood friend being all beaten up from fights. And that’s just the physical signs. Anytime she tried to get him to open up even more. 

“...Hey.” Risa’s soft voice broke the silence. 

“ Hm?” 

“ Whenever you feel like it, I’m ready to listen, okay?” 

There was no response from either of them. Risa just looked at the blonde man who stared back at her. Keigo turned towards her his arms wrapped around her body. Risa pulled him closer. Keigo’s body felt so much smaller than before. Like a small, delicate doll. The young woman's fingers slipped into his soft hair and gently caressed his head. When she could feel something warm on her clothes she let out a sigh. A sigh of relief. 

She would hold Keigo and keep petting his head even after Keigo fell back asleep. Maybe this hawk was out there to serve others and help them, but this little sparrow was even more determined to take care of him.